


The Rising Generation

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, posting for archival purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 09:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of mpreg fics that I wrote as part of a series called "The Rising Generation". Gathered here under one fic for easier reading.Chapter 1: All it took was four simple words. Germany always gave Italy what he wanted.||Reposted from fanfiction.net as I clear out old fics from my account there. Began in December 2010 and the last one was written May 2011.





	1. Simple Things (GerIta)

**Simple Things**

It never mattered what Italy wanted. Whether it was pasta, a hug, or a trip to visit friends, Germany was happy to fulfill the request.

His darling Italy only asked for simple things. He didn't care for clothes or money or fancy cars (not that Germany would let him drive again, after the story poor Japan had told him), and Germany was thankful for that.

At one time, the blond man had been annoyed by the Italian's simplicity, though that was largely because they were in the middle of a war and all the brown-haired man seemed capable of thinking about was pasta or fleeing from the enemy.

Over time, he grew used to it all. He was no longer so angered by how Italy would consistently screw up any and all assignments (he'd come to expect it and had even begun planning for it). He learned to sit through hours of talking about nothing but pasta. He'd learned to ignore Italy's crazy older brother, Romano, and all of the other weird things that happened when he was around the brunet (like the time he woke up to find the Roman Empire in his bedroom). He loved feeling the Italian crawl into his bed at night and snuggle up to his side.

Italy was more than just his best friend. He was more than just a lover. He was Germany's life.

"Germany, I want pasta," said Italy.

The blond looked up from his newspaper, which he was reading from the couch in their room at the World Conference Building. He sighed and folded up the paper-he'd already read it anyway-and then stood up. "Lets go get pasta, Italy."

"Ve~" Italy made a sound of happiness as he attached himself to Germany's arm. " _Grazie_ , Germany!"

And so, things went on like that for some time.

That was until a squeaking, stuttering, thoroughly embarrassed Canada told everyone he was pregnant with Russia's child. The violet-eyed man had looked so obscenely proud and happy with the news that no one dared to comment on how weird it was.

Even America, who never turned down the opportunity to open his big mouth, was quiet. (And unnaturally pale, unless that was just Germany's mind playing tricks on him.)

The meeting ended quickly after that, especially once Prussia, in his infinite wisdom, made a crass comment about Canada that earned him a punch and frying pan in the face. Maybe it was time for him to stop attending meetings altogether.

Italy was strangely silent during their walk back to their room. Germany glanced at him as they walked, trying to figure out what was bothering his favorite Italian. He was never that quiet or calm. In fact, Germany usually had to keep the guy from running down the halls.

When they reached their room, the short brunet stopped a few feet past the door, causing Germany to bump into him.

"Italy?" Questioned the taller man.

Italy looked up at his lover, his honey-brown eyes opened wide rather than nearly closed like always. "Germany…"

Concerned, Germany turned his lover around so he was properly facing him. His softened expression, coupled with a hand resting gently on his shoulder, had Italy speaking without him needed to ask what was wrong.

"I want a baby!"

"…"

It never mattered what Italy wanted. Germany was happy to fulfill the request.

" _Mit vergnügen,"_ He said as he swept the Italian off his feet.


	2. Brothers (SpainRomano)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romano isn't at all pleased to hear about Veneziano's pregnancy. Too bad Spain is quite delighted by the idea.

"I'll kill him," muttered Romano as he glared across the room.

Spain followed his gaze and wasn't surprised to see that Germany was the source of the man's ire. The fact that Romano's younger brother was cheerfully sitting in the stoic blond's lap, laughing and carrying on a conversation with Japan while eating a plate of pasta, may have been adding fuel to the fire.

"Romano, please," Spain spoke up. "Don't start another fight during lunch. Remember what happened last time?"

The Italian remembered, all too clearly.

It had been at their last meeting. The younger Italian had been sitting in Germany's lap, telling the blond man about something in his usual youthful, optimistic way. America had been, rather loudly, trying to convince Canada to leave Russia, while France laughed and congratulated the younger nation on "finally finding a way to be noticed", which resulted in England losing his temper and thwapping him in the head before moving on to scold America. (Though Romano didn't see the point, since the nation would just ignore his so-called "big brother" and keep talking.) Then Russia snuck up and overheard what Veneziano was telling Germany. Soon, everyone knew.

And that was how Romano found out about his future niece or nephew. That was also when he decided that the German had to die, then and there, for daring to defile his little brother.

In his haste to get over and start strangling the blond, he bumped into the table rather roughly, making all of the food resting on it slide around. And since Veneziano's pasta had been sitting on the very edge at the time, it slid right off onto the floor with a splat.

Veneziano stared down at the food, his amber eyes wide in shock. And then he raised them to look at his brother, who could see the tears beginning to gather.

" _Vene-"_

The younger Italian sniffled and got out of Germany's lap, leaving the room before Romano could apologize. The second he was gone, the other countries rounded on Romano, who shrieked in fright and dove under Spain's chair, yelling for the Spaniard to protect him.

"Damn potato-bastard," Romano grumbled, done with his mental journey to the past.

"I think it's nice," Spain said, unable to keep from smiling as he watched the happy couple. "Germany loves him and Veneziano loves Germany. That's going to be one lucky kid."

Romano scowled and kicked Spain's chair. "So you're on his side."

"I'm not on anyone's side, Romano."

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm not!"

"You're not on  _my_ side, which means you're on  _his_ side!"

The other countries stopped what they were doing to watch the two shout back and forth. Even Prussia ceased talking about his awesomeness.

"I just told you I'm not on anybody's side! Stop being difficult, Romano!"

"I'm not being difficult! You are!"

Spain slammed his hands onto the table as he stood up, green eyes glittering brightly in frustration. "Well it's a good thing that it's Veneziano who's pregnant and not you! You're bitchy enough as it is!"

Silence permeated the room following his words.

Romano choked up, unsure of how to respond to the statement. And then he stood up as well, glaring at the Spaniard with amber eyes very similar to those of his brother's. After a few seconds, tears began to gather, no matter how hard he fought them back. "You-you jerk!" He screamed before stomping out of the room.

Spain went chasing after him a split second later. "Romano! Wait!"

The countries still in the room had the decency to wait until the door slammed shut behind the green-eyed brunet before they started talking about the scene they had just witnessed.

"Ve~ Germany, does this mean I'm going to have a niece or nephew too?" Veneziano asked.

Germany looked rather uncomfortable with the question. "I don't know."

Across the table, France fluidly took a seat beside England, slipping one arm around the Briton's neck in an overly friendly gesture. " _Angleterre_ , perhaps it is time to announce our love to the world!"

England scowled and shoved the Frenchman away. "I am  _not_ having children with you, frog!"

"Yeah!" America agreed, zipping around to the other side of England. "Because he's going to have kids with me! Right, England?" He looked to the shorter man for approval, his blue eyes sparkling merrily behind his glasses.

" _I am not having kids with anyone!"_ England yelled in frustration.

Prussia smirked as he joined the game. "Don't be like that, England. You know you want to bear the children of the awesome me!"

"Bloody hell! Why are you still here?"

"Because I'm  _awesome_ , of course!"

As absolute chaos erupted around England and Veneziano started up a conversation with Canada and Japan about baby names, Finland and Sweden walked into the room, holding hands. Wide-eyed, they stared at the other countries, surprised by how childish they were acting during a meeting.

"Do you think this is why Spain and Romano are in the hall?" Finland asked.

"Maybe," Sweden replied. "'Et's sit."

.

* * *

.

"Romano!" With a burst of speed, Spain snagged the brunet's arm and pulled him to a stop. "Romano, stop! I'm sorry! Please!"

"Let me go, you jerk!" Romano yelled, trying to twist his arm away, but unable to break Spain's strong grip. "I don't want to talk to you! I hate you!"

Spain flinched at the hate-filled words, knowing he deserved them but wishing the Italian would listen to what he had to say for once. Stubbornly, he pulled the shorter man close until he was pressed right up against him. "Just listen to me. I'm sorry. What I said…" He paused to tighten his hold on Romano when he continued to struggle. "What I said wasn't right. I shouldn't have said that. And I'm sorry."

Romano finally stopped struggling. He sighed as he relaxed against Spain, raising his arms to wrap them around the taller man. "You're still a jerk."

Spain grinned at those familiar words. "I love you too, Romano."

"Stop saying shit like that! It's embarrassing!"

Laughing, Spain stepped away so he could pick up the other country and spin him around in a circle. When he set him down, he leaned over to kiss Romano on the lips before the feisty Italian could stop him. "I love you," he said again.

Romano blushed, turning the color of his beloved tomatoes. "S-stop saying that. We're in public. A-and I'm still mad at you! And if you think I'm giving birth to your  _spawn_ , think again!" He pushed away from Spain and turned his back to him. "You can find someone else!"

Spain hummed to himself, unable to stop himself from reached out and pulling Romano back to him. "If you want, I'll be the one to give birth to  _your_  spawn."

Romano rolled his eyes.

"But I don't think we need a kid," Spain said. "I'm happy just having you."

"Are you calling me a kid?" Romano sounded affronted.

"Nope," Spain replied, resting his chin on the Italian's head. "I like you better as an adult. Because I can do this," he paused to kiss his cheek. "And not get completely disgusted looks."

"Pervert."

"You weren't complaining last night."

Romano pinched his arm in response.

Spain let go of his lover, rubbing his arm in hopes of dispersing the pain, and gestured back towards the meeting room. "Ready to go back? I saw Sweden and Finland walk by earlier. Lunch is probably over."

Grumbling under his breath, the Italian followed the green-eyed brunet, not really wanting to face the reactions of the other countries.

He didn't need to worry. The absolute chaos around England had grown in the span of a few minutes, destroying any semblance of a productive meeting. Not even Germany dared to step in to call an end to the mess. So no one noticed when he and Spain walked back inside.

"Ah." Spain stared blankly at the arguing countries, wondering what was going on. "So much for our meeting. Come, Romano! Lets go back to our room!" Without warning, he took the honey-eyed man's hand in his own and pulled him back out the door.

"W-what? Hey! Let go! What are you doing! Idiot! Spain, are you listening to me, you bastard!  _Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiin!"_

_._


	3. Twins (SpainRomano)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While hiding out at Canada's house, Spain reveals something that Romano never expected to hear.

"Romano~! You're so cute! Like a tomato!"

"Get the hell off, bastard!"

It was a daily affair. Romano would wake up and go to the kitchen for a snack, which was usually a tomato, and then Spain would wander out of the bedroom in search of him.  _Naked._  Which typically resulted in Romano turning the color of his snack and Spain attaching himself to his neck, squealing about how cute he was. The Italian would then raise a fuss, cursing his Spanish lover in three different languages, but making no move to actually shove the man away.

"Hmm…" Spain lazily hummed as he nuzzled Romano's neck, his bright green eyes half closed. "You smell really nice."

Romano rolled his eyes as he took a large bite of his tomato.

It'd taken him nearly a month to get used to this new, overly affectionate side of Spain. (Not that he wasn't affectionate before, but it became worse the second he found out he was carrying Romano's child.) Comments about how everyone smelled were his newest thing and Romano was taking it surprisingly well.

Well, no, that wasn't true. He was using every ounce of his skill and strength to keep Spain away from the other nations. Spain was  _his,_ damn it, and he wasn't about to let some stupid French bastard steal him away.

Which was why they were far, far away in a place France couldn't find them.

"Yo! I've decided to grace you all with my awesome presence for the day! You should feel grateful!"

It was a pity that Prussia found them on the very first day. Granted, Romano shouldn't have been surprised that the albino would find them there, since he'd heard Canada complaining about the ex-nation dropping by to raid his pantries for maple syrup on occasion, but he didn't think it was actually true. Thankfully, it was a complete accident that he found them and he did promise to not breath a word to anyone, including Veneziano.

That didn't mean Romano had to be happy about it.

Maybe staying at Canada's house wasn't the best plan. Though France wouldn't dare set food in the house after his "disagreement" with Russia the other week. So while he still had to deal with the potato-bastard's older brother, he and Spain were safe from France and his wandering hands.

Prussia marched into the room, smirking when he saw the two lovers, but refrained from saying anything about Spain's state of undress. "Don't mind me! I'm just here to invade Canada's kitchen and steal his maple syrup! Where is he, anyway? I would kill for some of his awesome pancakes!"

"Upstairs sleeping," Spain said, most of his attention on the half-eaten tomato Romano was slowly raising to his lips. " _God_ , you're sexy."

Romano sputtered, his face turning bright red as Spain removed his arms from his neck and slid them around his waist instead, one hand gliding under his shirt. He shivered at the feather light caresses.

Prussia ignored the two and he began his hunt for maple syrup. "He's never asleep this late. Maybe he's depressed since Russia went to pay his country a visit? I know! My awesomeness will make him feel better in no time!" Red eyes gleamed with excitement at the sheer genius  _(stupidity)_  of his plan. Cackling, he ran out of the room.

Only to return seconds later to retrieve of bottle of maple syrup. "This  _and_ my awesome self. That'll definitely make him better!"

"Yeah, sure," Romano snapped, trying not to moan as Spain nipped his ear, his other hand joining the first under his shirt. The Spaniard was making it very difficult for him to finish his snack.

Prussia was already gone.

Spain paused in his ministrations, his eyes lingering on where his friend had been standing mere seconds before. "Hey, Romano, isn't Russia here?"

The Italian quickly took a bite of his tomato, somewhat disappointed that Spain had stopped. He smirked when he considered his lover's words. "Yeah. Bastard's gonna get killed. Took him long enough."

Spain looked up at the ceiling for a moment before shrugging and returning to his previous activity. As his hands resumed gliding across the smooth skin of his hot-tempered Italian, his stomach gave a loud grumble.

Romano reluctantly called a halt to the touching, carefully detangling himself from Spain without the use of violence. He popped the last bit of tomato in his mouth as he turned around to face him. Annoyed brown eyes met saddened green.

"A-are you angry?"

Romano huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Idiot. I'm not mad. Just… Just fucking eat something and we'll go back to the bedroom," he said, having some difficulty in keeping from sounding completely pissed off. He was trying his best to be nicer to Spain, especially since they would soon have a kid running around the house.

The second those green eyes lit up in glee, Romano considered running as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But he was too late. Spain swept him up in a bone-crushing hug while proclaiming for the world to hear that Romano really did care about him and the babies.

Hold up.

Romano stopped struggling as he tried to process what Spain said.

"Romano?"

Bab _ies._  As in  _more than one?_

Spain waved a hand in front of his face, concern clearly displayed on his face. His smile slipped away as Romano continued standing there, his eyes wide and his breathing erratic. "R-Romano? Romano, please say something. Are you alright?"

Shrieks of terror and anger erupted from upstairs as Prussia finally located the right room.

The dark-haired Italian stood there and stared at his lover, his face unnaturally pale.  _Babies… more than…_  He suddenly grasped Spain by the arms, his wild amber eyes meeting the brunet's frightened green ones. "Spain. A-are we…? There's m-more than one? I-it's.."

"Twins."

" _Twins,"_  Romano breathed, releasing Spain to drop his arms limply by his side. He looked hopelessly at the ground. His mind raced. "Twins…  _Dannare..._ "

Spain fidgeted, not knowing what was running through the Italian's mind. For once, he didn't speak, instead waiting for the explosion of words he was sure were coming. They had fought fiercely when he first found out about his pregnancy, especially after their first conversation about having children. Perhaps he should have eased Romano into the idea of twins.

There was a loud thump, followed by a crash from upstairs, but the two ignored it.

Thankfully, the noise startled one of the two into action. Normally it would have been Spain, throwing himself to his knees or onto Romano to beg for forgiveness and shout apologies in Spanish. Instead, for the first time in the course of their relationship, Romano initiated a hug.

It wasn't like Spain's hugs, in which he did his very best to hug Romano tight and keep him from using his hands to beat him up. The Italian gently pulled his lover close, resting his head in the crook of the Spaniard's neck as he slowly breathed, trying to get a grip on his emotions. "Damn it, Spain…" He muttered. "Bastard."

Spain relaxed when he felt one of Romano's hands lower to rub his belly. Things would be alright. _They_  would be alright.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _FUCK!"_

Prussia, on the other hand, would probably not be alright if he continued to piss off the other nations. Harassing Canada hadn't been his best idea in the world.

"Russia, please don't kill him!"

" _Kolkolkolkol…"_

"Yeah, listen to Canada! You don't want to kill the awesome me! Then you'll be left with my totally un-awesome  _Bru_ - _-Mein Gott_! Put that down! No! Fuck!"

Romano rolled his eyes as he pulled away from Spain. "Your friend's a fucking idiot."

"Yup," agreed Spain.


	4. Card Games (RussiaCanada, SpainRomano)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Russia and Spain are out, Canada and Romano have a talk while playing Uno with Kumajiro. And then things go downhill as Canada goes into labor.

Canada waddled through his house, one hand resting on his large belly. With the eve of his ninth month only a handful of days away, Russia had taken to all but confining him to his bed, which had been relocated from the second floor to the first floor when he began having trouble getting down stairs.

Romano had nearly flipped out when the decision was made, but was quickly cooled down by a fast-talking Spain and the wonderful distraction that was Prussia marching through the front door. He'd then grumbled about Spain getting the bedroom back once Canada's baby was born, but helped move furniture and clothes. No complaints had been made since then, so Canada assumed Romano was okay with it.

"Russia?" He called out to the surprisingly quiet house. His heart sank as worry set in. Ever since he started dating the violet-eyed man, his house had been filled with noise on a daily basis. And when Spain and Romano came to stay with them, he was lucky to get a few minutes of peace and quiet.

As he walked through the living room, which still had wrapping paper strewn in every direction thanks to the impromptu baby shower his brother "gifted" him with the night before, he heard cursing coming from the kitchen. His spirits lifted.

"Russia?" Canada asked again as he reached the room. He stopped in the doorway, blinking in surprise at the sight before him.

There, sitting at the kitchen table, were Romano and Kumajiro. That by itself wasn't unusual, and it explained the cursing he heard, since the two didn't get along very well. However, the two appeared to be playing a card game. _Uno_ to be exact.

" _Un_ ," Kumajiro said, sliding a card (face up) across the table.

"That doesn't count! It's uno!  _Uno!_  Stupid- Canada! Tell your damn bear to say it the right way!" Romano demanded.

"Who?"

"Ca- Oh,  _fuck it!"_

Canada couldn't help but laugh, reminded of one of Prussia's more memorable visits during which he nearly tore about the kitchen to try and get at Kumajiro, fed up with the bear being unable to remember his owner. Though the mess had ended in a food fight and Russia kicking the albino out into the snow and really hadn't been all that funny at the time, Canada suddenly found the memory hilarious. (He blamed it on his hormones.)

He tried to quiet down when Romano glared at him but a few chuckles continued to spill over.

"Stupid bear…damn Spanish jackasses…need a fucking tomato," Romano muttered to himself for a moment as he played a card, changing the color from red to green. He smirked, feeling as though he'd ruined the bears victory, only to throw down his cards in a fit of anger mere seconds later when Kumajiro slid his final card across the table, winning the game.

Canada walked into the room as Romano began ranting, first in English, then in a mixture of Italian and Spanish. (Or so Canada assumed.)

Ignoring that Kumajiro was bending the cards as he attempted to shuffle the deck, Canada began searching the cabinets, starting with the ones he didn't have to bend over or stretch to reach. Door after door was opened and then shut as the pregnant blond searched for his most recent craving.

Romano jerked open the refrigerator, unbothered by the clanking of bottles, and snatched a tomato from the huge box on the top shelf. He ferociously bit into it while he watched Canada, waiting a few minutes before giving in to his curiosity.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

"My maple cookies," Canada replied, reaching up to one of the high cabinets over the stove. "Russia keeps hiding them because otherwise Kumabiki eats them all. Problem is, I don't know where they are either…" He pouted.

Romano cursed to himself and pulled out a chair from the table. "Sit down, idiot. I'll find your damn cookies."

Canada turned around. "Eh?"

"I-I'm only doing this because I don't want Russia to kill me if you get hurt!" Romano said hastily. "Fucker still creeps me out…"

Canada smiled as he sat down at the table. " _Merci,_ Romano."

While the Italian hunted down the elusive cookies, Canada fought with Kumajiro over the cards, eventually sweeping them away from the bear and gathering them into a stack so he could properly shuffle them.

"Here." Romano dropped the box of cookies on the table as he roughly took a seat. "By the way, idiot Spain and your… Russia left while you were sleeping. Don't know where the hell they went. Some  _grande sorpresa._ " Clearly irritated, he ripped open the box and tore through the packaging to get to the first cookie. He bit into it and immediately made a comment about tomatoes being better while pushing the box towards Canada.

The blond smiled, slipping out two cookies and giving one to Kumajiro. "You know, I really like having you and Spain here," he said shyly. "I-It was just me and Kumajiro for a while. And then Russia moved in and suddenly everyone was visiting. Though that was more because they were worried about what Russia might do to me. Even papa…"

Romano assumed he was talking about France. "You've got a shitty family."

Canada leveled a frigid glare that had the Italian wanting to run away screaming in terror. No wonder the blond got along with Russia so well.

"You should tell Italy."

"I'm  _not_ telling Veneziano."

"He's worried."

Romano scoffed.

Canada sighed, sinking down in his chair as much as his belly would allow. "You should be glad. Your family remembers you. Misses you when you're gone. I'm just…forgotten." He smiled wryly. "Besides, Prussia can only keep a secret for so long before it bursts free. He's, uh, 'awesome' like that, eh?"

"Potato bastard," grumbled Romano. "Fine. I'll call him. But I'm not telling Veneziano where I'm at! That idiot will come flying out here whether he's seven months along or not."

Canada smiled, sitting up again. "Okay. Lets play a game." He held up the stack of cards.

The mood in the room lightened as the blond dealt the cards, humming a cheerful tune as he did so. Within a few minutes, however, the happy sound changed to that of playful insults in an eclectic mixture of languages, which sounded both natural and awkward at the same time. Laughter broke up the insults, as well as the occasional screeching curse as Kumajiro continued to best Romano at the card game.

And then the kitchen door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and a few snowflakes, as well as the familiarly obnoxious voice that belonged to none-other than Prussia.

"The awesome me is here to brighten your day! Oh, and to invade your vital-er, kitchen." He paused as he shut the door behind him, already kicking off his boots and slipping off his heavy coat, which he left to melt snow all over the kitchen floor.

" _Bonjour,_ Prussia," Canada greeted as he set down a blue card.

Romano grumbled something, reaching for the stack of cards in the middle of the table. He drew one, and then another, which was quickly followed by three more before he found a card to set down.

"What are you-?" Prussia stopped and smirked. Apparently he recognized the game they were playing. "Awesome! I want in!" Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed a chair and turned it around so the back was facing the table. Then he sat down, resting his arms on the back.

Canada set aside the card Romano had just put down so he could shuffle the deck and deal Prussia a hand of cards. It was better to include him immediately or else he'd get bored and find some way to destroy the poor kitchen.

"Maple cookies, huh?" Prussia remarked, flicking the box. A sudden  _cheep_ had him reaching into his hair, to the amusement of the other males in the room. He lowered a small, yellow chick to the table, watching as it hopped over to the box of cookies and settled on top of it. "Gilbird! You just ate!"

Canada couldn't help but chuckle when the bird seemed to glare at the albino. He carefully removed a cookie and broke it in half, giving part to Gilbird and keeping the rest for himself.

"Glutton," Prussia accused, glaring back at his bird.

"Just like his owner," Romano said, not even trying to hide his smirk.

"You little-"

Before a fight could erupt between the southern half of Italy and the ex-nation of Prussia, the kitchen door flew open for the second time in a span of less than five minutes. Canada wasn't sure whether to be happy or worried about the sudden attention bestowed upon him.

"Why's it always so cold here? Snow definitely didn't originate from me!"

Canada almost groaned and smacked his head into the table. Nearly a year had gone by since  _that_  particular nation visited and he was almost certain that him showing up wasn't a good thing. In fact, given that his touchy-feely behavior was nearly as bad as France's, he knew it was a really, really bad thing.

"Korea! Calm down, aru! Ah,  _ni hao_ , Canada! I hope we're not intruding."

Blinking in surprise, the blond turned around to see just how many Asians were invading his home. Normally it was just South Korea and China, but there had been times when they all showed up without warning.

Luckily, the only other person with them was Hong Kong, who, despite being a little odd, was relatively sane and easy to get along with.

" _Bonjour,_ " Canada greeted.

Prussia grumbled something about "panda's" and "good luck charms" but refused to greet the newcomers. Similarly, Romano appeared very aggravated by their intrusion.

All that meant was that it was Canada's job to try and diffuse the tension. Smiling, he showed them the cards he was shuffling. "Would you like the play?"

.

* * *

.

As the sun began to set, Russia and Spain returned at last with their  _"grande sorpresa"_ to find the kitchen in total chaos. They both froze in the doorway, Spain nearly dropping one of his bags, and watched the proceedings.

Prussia was standing on a chair, one hand holding up a mug of beer and the other a few brightly colored cards. For whatever reason, he was shirtless and Gilbird was cheeping madly from his nest of white hair.

Canada was sitting to the albino's left, his back facing the door, looking quite flustered as he shouted in French and gestured wildly to the pile of cards in the middle of the table.

China was next to him, laughing so hard he was crying. The two newcomers to the unfolding chaos assumed he was under the influence of the two sake bottles left over from Japan and America's little drinking contest a few weeks back. His hair was unbound, flowing freely in every direction and he was holding his cards in a way that anyone could see them if those chose to.

Which was exactly what South Korea was doing. The dark-haired nation was excitedly examining the older man's cards and comparing them against his own, trying to figure out the best way to beat his big brother.

Next to South Korea was Kumajiro, who had already rid himself of his cards and was emptying the box of maple cookies.

Hong Kong was the only quiet one, though he did appear rather amused by what was going on.

And then there was Romano. Crawling around under the table wearing only those cute tomato-print boxers Spain got him as a gift one year. Rapidly cursing everything under the sun in his usual way.

"R-Romano?" Spain stammered in surprise.

"… _dannare-! Spagna?"_  There was a loud thud as the Italian's head made contact with the table. A few muffled curses later and he was at Spain's side, looking a little flushed and disoriented. He uttered something in Spanish for only his lover to hear and then kissed the dark-haired man right on the lips.

Prussia let out a loud  _'whoop!'_ of excitement, sloshing beer down his arm and onto the floor. South Korea laughed, shouting encouragement and being a nuisance in general, nudging China to try and get him to look. Canada turned around to see what was going on.

In the next few minutes, several things happened. First, Romano cursed out Spain for carrying a bunch of bags and then took them from him, insisting that he carry them up to their room. He then dragged the Spaniard from the room, though it wasn't necessary since he was more than happy to follow him.

Next, Prussia, sensing the murderous aura surrounding Russia, quickly downed his beer and deposited the mug in the sink, running some water to wash it out and then sticking it in the dishwasher. Shouting his goodbye's to those still remaining, he tried to avoid touching Russia as he pulled back on his (wet) coat and boots and hurried out the door.

Finally, Hong Kong volunteered himself and South Korea to help China upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms. Kumajiro vanished with them, leaving only Canada and Russia in the kitchen.

"W-welcome home," Canada stammered, unsure of how his lover would react to all of the people in their home.

Russia stared at him for a moment before ducking back outside without a word.

Canada's heart beat wildly in his chest, his blue eyes widening as tears welled up. He tried to get up from his chair to go chase after the tall Russian, but knew he couldn't after a few fumbling attempts. He bowed his head, his vision obscured as tears began to trickle down his cheeks. " _M-maple_ …"

As if having a sensor for when things were wrong with Canada, Russia was suddenly by his side, wiping away the tears, his strong arms wrapping around the smaller blond. "Canada, why are you crying?"

"B-because I can't get up!" Sobbed the younger nation. "A-and you were g-going to l-leave me!"

Russia hugged him more tightly. "I'm not leaving. I would never leave you. You're my Canada." He kissed his forehead gently. "I was just getting your surprise. I can get it later if you'd like."

"N-no, it's okay. I'm okay," Canada whispered, calming down as Russia began to run his fingers through his hair, carefully avoiding his curl. Trembling and cursing how overly emotional he was being, he leaned against his lover, taking comfort in his strength. "I-I'm sorry I've been so… so…" He helplessly waved a hand, unable to find the right word.

Russia stopped stroking his hair, trailing one hand down Canada's face to tilt his head so he was looking into his eyes. Gently, he leaned down and kissed his lips, lingering for only a few seconds before pulling away. "I love you, Canada."

"It's, like, totally cold out here!"

"Poland! Stop!"

"Liet, I'm getting snow in my shoes! I'm, like, not going to stand out here any more!"

"Just wait! We're supposed to wait-"

The door swung open, banging into the wall, revealing Poland standing there in a long coat (which was most likely covering up some sort of dress), his blond hair pulled up into two ponytails. Lithuania was behind him, nervously wringing his hands, green eyes peering past his friend to gauge Russia's reaction.

Canada did his best not to giggle at the expression on the Russian's face. He couldn't help but let one escape as he pulled him down and kissed him. "Go ahead and get the surprise. I'll wait here."

Russia nodded, running a hand through Canada's hair one last time before he stood and walked over to the door, glaring at Poland, who looked back defiantly before squeaking and ducking behind Lithuania, who sighed.

"I'm really sorry, Russia. I tried to stop him."

Russia said nothing, pushing past them to go back through the snow to the car.

Lithuania pushed Poland inside before running after the other country, hoping to apologize for interrupting his moment with Canada. Unfortunately, that left the blunt blond alone with Canada.

"Wow, you're like, totally huge," Poland remarked as he slid off his coat. Sure enough, he was wearing a light pink dress. "How many are you having?"

"Just one," Canada replied. "A boy."

Poland smiled and hung up his coat in the proper place rather than dropping it on the floor. His shoes, completely inappropriate for a Canadian winter, were the next to come off, carefully set aside on a rug where no one would trip over them. "Have you picked out a name yet?" He asked as he walked over to Canada.

"A few," Canada replied, resting on hand on his belly. "But we want to keep them a secret until he's born. Shouldn't be too much longer." He flinched suddenly, pain splintering through his body.

"Are you, like, okay?" Poland asked worriedly.

Canada quickly nodded. " _Oui._ I'm fine. Just false contractions again."

"Oh." Poland was silent for a moment, glancing at the still-open door when he heard a loud curse. Then he looked back at Canada, who was still staring outside. "Can I…?" With some guidance, he was soon resting his hand on the blond's belly, feeling the baby's kicks. He giggled a little, his green eyes sparkling in awe.

There was the sound of shuffling and crunching snow at the door as Russia, Lithuania, and several others came into view carrying something. Canada was surprised to see America and France each gripping part of the box, helping to keep it out of the snow. Following behind them was England, carrying something much smaller, and a pretty woman with red ribbons in her black hair, holding a carefully wrapped gift.

Warmth flowed into his chest at the sight of his family. Though he'd seen England and America the day before, thanks to the impromptu baby shower, it'd been months since he'd seen his papa. And it'd been even longer since he'd last seen the only girl of the group.

The guys carefully maneuvered their way up the steps and through the door, tracking in snow as they carried the box inside and eased it down onto the floor. England and the woman trailed in behind them, making sure to shut the door so no more cold air would flow in.

" _Mon frère!"_ She exclaimed the moment she laid eyes on Canada.

" _Bonsoir,_ Seychelles!"

Laughing happily, the dark-haired woman swooped over and handed over her present while kissing her brother on the cheek. "It's been so long! Oh, look at you! You're so beautiful!"

Canada blushed. " _M-merci."_

France quickly joined them, wrapping one arm around Seychelles' dainty waist. The three of them conversed happily in French for a few minutes while everyone else slowly inched away from Russia, whose aura was steadily growing darker the longer France was near Canada.

And then the Canadian winced, moving both hands to his belly. Russia was by his side in an instant, running one hand comfortingly through his love's hair while the other went to lay on his belly.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah, it's just the usual thing."

Russia frowned. "Are you sure? You're almost nine months along, it could be-"

"It's not," Canada interrupted, suddenly sounding very nervous. "I-it can't be. It's not time yet. I-" He moaned suddenly as Russia brushed against his curl, effectively stopping his rambling.

England moved to stand on the other side of his ex-colony, being very careful to keep some space between them. The last thing he wanted was to invoke Russia's anger like a certain other European country. "How long has this been going on?"

"I-it just started," Canada said.

"He, like, had one when you were bringing in the box," Poland informed them. "Is he okay?"

England unflinchingly met Russia's eyes. "We need to get him to the hospital. We can't take any chances."

Canada felt a panic rising inside when Russia agreed. It was too early! The baby couldn't be coming already! He wasn't ready!

He clung to Russia as the tall man effortlessly lifted him from his chair, barking orders to Lithuania, who sprang into action as though he'd never left Russia's house. Before the brunet ran off to start the car, he paused to kiss Poland on the cheek, making him promise to behave and watch after Canada's house. The cross-dressing blond cheerfully agreed and bid him farewell.

Russia stopped to get America's assistance in covering Canada with a blanket and then followed Lithuania into the cold. A train consisting of England, France, Seychelles, and America trailed after him, the last of whom gave Poland a thumbs up before shutting the door.

.

* * *

.

"Ohoho! He looks just like Canada!"

"Aww, so cute!"

"Hey, England, I bet I was a cuter baby than Canada! I was, right?"

"Shut up, you insufferable git."

Canada smiled as he watched his family crowd around the baby crib, peering down at his infant son. For once he had no problems with going unnoticed, too proud that his son would be loved by many nations. He looked up as Russia walked into the room. His lover narrowed his violet eyes as France reached down to tickle the baby's belly.

"Relax. Papa already announced his intentions to be the greatest grandpapa in the world," Canada whispered to him.

"That never stopped him from groping you," replied Russia. "He won't be left alone with our son."

Canada tiredly leaned against him. "I agree." He raised an eyebrow when a way-too-cheerful Romano bounced into the room. It took Germany entering the room for him to realize it wasn't Romano currently hovering over the crib cooing over his son, but the younger Italy, Veneziano. "Why's Italy here?"

"Japan mentioned that Romano is here," Germany said. "I tried to stop him."

"Maybe we should change rooms before he comes downstairs," Canada suggested.

Germany glanced behind him, his expression giving nothing away. "I think it's too late for that. Here he comes." He stepped aside just as Romano blazed into the room, heading straight for his younger brother.

"Veneziano, you idiot!"

As Romano began yelling at his brother for flying all the way to Canada while he's seven months pregnant, Spain sleepily shuffled into the room wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants. He watched his lover for a moment and then his eyes lit up when he noticed who he was yelling at. Rather than staying out of the way, he dove into the fray, wrapping his arms around Romano's waist and kissing him on the neck. His actions only served to further infuriate the Italian.

Crying reached Canada's ears as Romano's voice rose in volume. He separated himself from Russia and pushed his way past England and America so he could reach down and pick up his son. Cradling the baby in his arms, he gently rocked him and murmured to him in French.

Unfortunately, Romano continued to yell at Veneziano, who began to cry.

" _Everyone shut up!"_  Germany roared.

The Italy's fell silent, leaving only the baby as a source of noise. Miraculously, Canada was able to get him to quiet down within ten minutes, though he continued to hold him.

"Ve~ What's his name?" Italy asked.

Startled, Canada realized that only he and Russia knew what name they gave their son. He looked up, silently calling the other nation to his side, and it was only when he was leaning lightly against his lover that he felt comfortable introducing the baby to the other nations.

"Everyone, this is Mikhail Irvine Williams."


	5. One Day We'll Dance (AmericaEngland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally 6 chapters on fanfiction.net, it's been compiled into a single one here.
> 
> England's plan to get America drunk and probe him for information finally works out, though things still don't go according to plan.

Part 1: The Bar

America cried tears of laughter as he half slid, half fell off his bar stood, one hand gripping the sleeve of England's shirt. "Oh man, c'mon Eng-Artie. Now you've gotta dance with me! You can't not after that story!"

England rolled his eyes, determined to not budge from his seat. "You're drunk and your grammar is atrocious. Sit  _down_ , you fool. You can barely stand."

Still laughing, America tried to prove he wasn't drunk by letting go of England's sleeve and trying to stand on one leg. Unfortunately for him, it didn't quite work and he ended up falling over right onto England, nearly upsetting the older nation from his seat.

"Alfred!" The Briton gripped the bar to keep both of them from falling onto the floor. A blush rose to his face when he realized America had one of his strong arms around his waist and the other thrown over his shoulder. And how could he ignore how the younger nation's warm breath was puffing across his ear and cheek? For a moment, he enjoyed the sensation of being close to his ex-colony before he came to his senses and pushed him away. "G-get off, you git! And sit down!"

Looking mildly disappointed, America extracted himself from England and clumsily sat down, ordering another beer as he did so. "So, what should we drink to, Artie?" He slurred.

"It's  _Arthur_ ," corrected England.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, I know!" He grabbed his fresh beer and lifted it up. "A toast! To, uh, Mattie not having a second kid with that Russian bastard!"

England frowned and refused to pick up his glass of scotch. For the first time in their days of going out to bars after meetings, he'd been nursing the same glass all evening rather than his usual number. "I am  _not_ drinking to that. Matthew was crushed when he found out they couldn't have another." He reached out and forced America to lower his bottle. "And you will not drink to that either. I happen to recall a certain American who was devastated to learn he wouldn't be the uncle to a little girl."

America's good cheer vanished as he lowered his gaze to the table. His eyes misted over as he nodded. "Y-yeah… You're right." He remained silent for a few minutes, mindlessly peeling the label on his bottle. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I'll ever have kids?"

Shocked, England looked at the younger nation. He shivered when his green eyes met America's saddened sky blue eyes, but couldn't bring himself to look away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the other man with that expression. Had America ever looked like that? It seemed as though he were always cheerful.

No. There was one time. Back when England thought for sure he was going to die. World War II wasn't a fond memory for any country and he was no exception. He could still feel the echoes of excruciating pain from the bombing of his land whenever he thought back to that time. (Plus there was that horrible failure of an 'ultimate weapon', which he still loathed thinking about.)

And just when he was about to give up, America was suddenly there at his bedside, pleading for him not to die. He'd thought it was his last chance to tell his ally how he really felt about him, but just as he was about to tell him he finally lost consciousness thanks to his pain. He dimly remembered America panicking for a moment before making some absurd joke that had him springing back to consciousness in anger and disbelief.

He became aware that America was still looking to him for an answer. He finally broke eye contact and looked away while clearing his throat. "I suppose. So long as you don't intend to have fifty of them."

America laughed, though it wasn't anywhere near his usual confident laugh. It was weak, almost unsure. "Dude, no way I'm having fifty kids. The world couldn't handle fifty of me running around."

Surprised for the second time that evening, England couldn't help but look back over at America. Had the nation just made a joke about  _himself_? That was almost unheard of. Usually America was too busy making jokes about other nations and proclaiming himself as a hero.

Something wasn't right.

"Ame-Alfred," England hastily corrected. He mentally berated himself for his near slip-up. "Are you feeling well?"

"Of course!" America replied. "Might be a little drunk…" He trailed off into silence for a moment before he shook his head and smiled. "Dude, have you even finished one? C'mon, don't make me drink alone. Oh yeah! Our toast! Lets see… How about to Ger-Ludwig and Feli's second kid? I think Gilbert said they're having another girl."

Though he wasn't convinced that everything was right in the world of America, England picked up his glass of scotch and held it up. Grinning, America clinked his bottle against the Briton's glass and then took a few gulps of his beer while his companion sipped at his own drink.

"So," America haphazardly threw an arm around England and pulled the shorter man closer. "Think you'll ever have kids, Artie?"

England tensed up. "Kids? N-no. I've had a bloody horrible record raising young nations. If I try again it'll only give Francis one more thing to tease me about." He tried to push America away, suddenly feeling smothered by his attention. He would never admit to anyone but himself just how much he loved the American's attention, but at that moment all he wanted to do was go home and sleep and ignore their entire conversation about children.

America refused to budge, pulling England closer if anything. "I dunno. I think you did a good job with me and Mattie. Not that I'm gonna start calling you 'dad' or anything. That'd be totally weird, dude."

" _Father! Father, look what I made!"_

England grasped his glass and quickly threw back the last gulp of scotch, wincing as it burned its way down his throat. Memories he would rather not remember began to resurface as he closed his eyes and leaned against America, who blinked in surprise and looked down at him.

"Arthur?"

" _I'm going back to mom. I don't want to live with you anymore."_

England shakily took a breath. That day. He never wanted to remember that day. That feeling of failure when yet another colony left him before he was ready to let go. The only day he hated more than that, the day he thought he'd erased from his memory, was several months before the birth of the colony. (Though, undoubtedly, America's revolution left a far sharper pain in his heart.)

" _England, I-I'm going to have a baby."_

" _What? How? That shouldn't be possible!"_

" _I don't know, aru!"_

"…thur? Arthur?  _England_!"

England let out the air in his legs in one breath, staring at America with wide eyes. The young nation stared back with worry in his sky blue eyes, lips parted in preparation to call his name again.

"Christ, Arthur," whispered America. "Are you okay? Your face went completely white! If you really don't wanna talk about kids you should've said something. Didn't think you'd be someone who didn't want kids, to tell the truth."

England continued to lean against America, too exhausted to try and move. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't because he found the younger nation comforting in presence alone. "It's not that I don't want another kid…" He murmured.

America's grip weakened as he pulled away from the Briton. He frowned, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "England, what do you mean 'another kid'."

England quickly pulled away from him, cursing in his mind. He knew it was a bad idea to drink. That was why he tried so hard to not drink like he usually did. He felt like such a lightweight. He muttered that he was going back to the hotel, leaving America sitting there, wide-eyed, on the barstool.

After a few seconds he jumped up, tossing some money on the table (and feeling very thankful they were in his country for their meeting) and rushing after the shorter man. "England! England, wait! Damn it!" He stumbled over the doorway, practically running into the door before he shoved it open and ran to catch up. "England!" Summoning his last burst of energy, he caught up to the Briton, roughly grabbing his arm and pulling him back against him. "Stop! Just stop!"

"Unhand me!" England yelled, trying to break free. "Unhand me this instant, America!"

Instead of giving in to his demands, America rested his hands on England's shoulders, putting most of his weight on the blond. "Well, I would, but I'm kinda havin' a hard time walking. Guess I drank a little too much tonight, huh?" He laughed, trying to clear the air of any tension. "Today must be opposite day! Usually I'm the one carrying you home. Good thing I'm not passed out, or you would've had to call for help!"

England briefly considered shoving America away anyway and leaving him there on the sidewalk. However, just as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it away. He would never do that to the American, no matter how annoying or obnoxious he was being.

"I suppose it would be ungentlemanly if I didn't help you get home," he said with as much dignity as he could muster at that moment. "Just get on my back. You'll have both of us falling to the ground if you continue trying to walk."

"No way, dude. I'll crush you!"

England bristled. "Do you honestly believe me to be that weak? Get on before I leave you here!"

Blinking in surprise, America shrugged. "Okay, dude. Don't say I didn't warn you!"

It didn't take long for England to discover just how awkward carrying America was going to be. His weight wasn't the problem. As a nation, England was much stronger than an ordinary human, though his strength wasn't anywhere near America's. (Very few nations boast of having physical strength like America. Russia and Germany were the only two he could think of off the top of his head.)

The problem wasn't America's height either. Though the younger man was 2 centimeters taller, it wasn't enough to cause a problem.

What was a problem, was that America didn't know how to stay still.

"Watch your feet!" England barked as America squirmed around in his back. "Can't you sit still for even a few seconds!"

America chuckled a little. "Sorry, England. Didn't mean to crush your London tower."

England's face turned red as he struggled to not start screaming in the middle of the street. "Shut up, you childish ninny!"

The drunken blond laughed in response, but stopped moving around. For a moment he was silent, so silent that England wondered if he'd fallen asleep. And then America sighed. "England, if I ask you about your kid, are you gonna drop me?"

England frowned.

What if he did tell America? What would his ex-colony think? Would he even remember it in the morning? And more importantly, was England ready to talk about that particular piece of his past?

"England?" America poked his cheek. "You alive?"

"Of course I am!" England snapped, wishing he could smack away the American's hand. Unfortunately, both of his hands were helping support the taller man's weight. "And why do you want to know about my kid anyway?"

"Ah ha! So you  _do_ have a kid!"

" _I will drop you on the sidewalk,"_ threatened England.

"Okay, okay! Jeez, dude. I'm just curious, y'know. You're always so secretive about your past. Seems like I only find out stuff about you when you and France are fighting. That's why I like listening to you two," America admitted. "It'd be nice if I could hear something from you for once. Unless you'd rather I go ask France."

"No!" England quickly said. "No… France doesn't know about this. And I don't want him to find out. America…" He hesitated and then shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it. It doesn't matter anymore. He's with his mother and is much happier than when he was with me. There's nothing to talk about."

"Okay." And just like that, America dropped the subject.

* * *

"Blast," England hissed as he forced open the door to America's bedroom. He wasn't too surprised to find a pile of the younger man's stuff cluttering up his room, making it difficult to navigate. Fortunately, his bed seemed to be clear of anything. "I cannot believe this idiot fell asleep."

America mumbled something as his head lolled to one side, a trail of drool making its way down his chin.

England frowned as he carefully walked across the room, where he none-too-gently deposited America on the bed. "You're home. Wake up and get changed so you don't wrinkle your clothes."

America opened his eyes, only to close them immediately afterwards with a hiss of pain. "Oh damn. Turn out the light."

"Don't be a baby," England responded.

"Whatever. I'll just toss this stuff in the wash tomorrow." Before England could protest, America crawled beneath his blankets, still in his day clothes. He pulled the sheets up around his neck, his eyes still tightly shut. "Is the light out yet?"

"If I turn it off, will you take off those clothes?"

America cracked open one eye and grinned. "Why England, if you wanted to see me naked, you should've said so," he joked. To his glee, England's face promptly turned a shade of bright red. "I'm  _kidding_ , old man. Jeez, and France keeps going on about passing on his title of pervert to you. I don't know what he's talking about. You're such a prude."

"I-I am not! Just because I would prefer you remaining clothed while in my company doesn't mean that I'm a prude, America!" England retorted. He huffed and looked away from the younger man. "Why am I even bothering talking to you? You're drunk! Just go to sleep and I'll bring you up a glass of water."

America closed his eyes as England walked away, clicking off the light on his way out, and settled down under his blankets for a nice long night of sleep. His breathing quickly evened out as he relaxed and soon he was fast asleep.

The Briton returned a few minutes later, a glass of water in hand. Rather than turning the bedroom light back on, and potentially waking up the snoozing American, he used the light from the hall to illuminate the hazardous path to the bed. After stubbing his toe twice and kicking away two shirts and a pair of boxers, he made it to America. He set the glass down on the bedside table and was turning to leave when he noticed the other blond was still wearing his glasses.

"You fool," he whispered fondly, a small smile gracing his lips. "Sometimes I wonder how you've managed to survive for so long." He sat down on the edge of the bed and watched the other nation for a moment with whimsical green eyes. "Seeing you like this…It's like looking at your younger self again. So peaceful. Except for these." He reached out and began lifting away the glasses, so caught up in what he was doing that he didn't notice the sky blue eyes watching his every move.

"Careful," America said suddenly. "That's Texas."

England flinched in surprise, his eyes widening. The glasses slipped from his fingers, settling awkwardly on America's face. "I-I thought you were asleep! Have you been awake this whole time?"

"Hmn…" America made a noncommittal sound. "You can take them off if you want. Just be careful with them."

Frowning, England tried to figure out what the American was planning. The last time someone (read: France) tried to touch his glasses, he panicked and ran away as fast as he could. England had later discovered him hiding in one of the janitor's closets of the conference building. For America to let him touch his glasses, he must have been really drunk or planning something stupid.  _'He could barely walk earlier. And he did drink a lot tonight. He_ _ **must**_ _be completely wasted if he's letting me do this.'_

England reached out and began slowly removing America's glasses, searching for any sign that the man might react adversely.

America didn't so much as twitch. He just laid there, staring back at England with his calm, sky blue eyes. He didn't look at all afraid. There wasn't a hint of weariness. No fear. Just calm blue. Relief.  _Trust._

England's breath caught in his throat.  _'He trusts me… He_ _trusts_ _ **me**_ _.'_ His heart began pounding in his ears as he broke his gaze to look at the glasses in his hands. To look at Texas. One of America's beloved fifty states. If he wanted, he could snap it in half. He could throw it across the room and watch it shatter against the wall, if he threw it hard enough. He could destroy Texas.

' _No.'_ As gently as possible, he set Texas next to the glass of water. His hands should as he withdrew them to his lap. He couldn't look at America. Not after that realization.

"You're not drunk, are you."

America laughed. "Nah. Takes more than a few beers to get me wasted, England. Sure took you long enough to figure that out."

"I'm such a fool…" The Briton slumped his shoulders, leaning forward in dismay. He should have known. He'd been too hopeful that he'd finally succeeded in getting America drunk. That hope had blinded him and led to his downfall.

The covers shifted as America sat up and moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed like England. "You're not," he said firmly, all joking cast out of his voice. "England, you're not a fool. You're the only one to see past this. And you stayed with me. Everyone else calls a taxi and then drags me to my couch and leaves." He fell silent for a moment, glancing at the shorter man hopefully. "I-I'm sorry," he said quickly, the two words blending together. "For, uh, tricking you. But I really liked talking to you tonight. I know you only said a lot of things 'cause you thought I wouldn't remember, you know, on account of me being drunk, but-"

"Shut up," England muttered. With a heavy sigh, he let himself lean to his left, right against America. "You shouldn't plot such elaborate schemes. If you'd like to talk, just tell me. Git."

America grinned down at him, sneakily moving one arm around England, waiting for the perfect chance. "It was kind of fun though. Acting drunk. I even got you to carry me! You haven't done that in a couple hundred years, huh?"

"It's not something I plan on doing again," warned England. "You move around far too much."

"I had to get comfortable!"

"I almost dropped you five times because of your squirming!"

"But you didn't."

England's next remark died on his lips as America's soft-spoken statement reached his ears. It was hard to keep arguing when it was clear the younger man didn't intend to fight back. That was part of why he fought with the American so often. No matter how stupid, the two could argue back and forth without truly getting angry with one another. It was habit. (France, however, was another matter entirely.)

"No, I didn't," England agreed. "You're surprisingly light, considering how many hamburgers you eat in a day."

"It's not my fault they're so good," America said with a laugh. "But I've cut back on them lately, you know. I figured it'd be a good idea. My people are trying to be more health-conscious lately."

"They're failing."

"Hey, I said  _trying,_  not succeeding."

England couldn't help but chuckle. "I suppose all countries have food-related problems in some way or another. But enough of that. Even if you aren't drunk, you should still get some sleep. It's almost two."

America glanced uninterestedly at the clock. "It's still early. Besides, there's something I wanna do."

"What- _America!"_  England yelped in surprise as the taller nation pulled him into his lap, grinning all the while. "Bloody hell! What was that for?"

"I felt like it," replied America. "And this makes it easier for me to kiss you."

"I- _what?_  This had better not be your idea of a joke." England narrowed his eyes, daring him to laugh. To his amazement, America looked unsure, almost nervous. His gaze softened as he reached up and cupped the taller man's cheek. "Don't make me regret this," he whispered as he leaned up and caressed America's lips with his own.

After a moment of frozen disbelief, America eagerly returned the kiss. The first time England's tongue brushed against his mouth, his did nothing. The second time, he gave in, parting his lips to let the older man in. He fought with England for dominance at first but then let him take full control, making quiet sounds of encouragement all the while.

Eventually the two parted, their breathing erratic. America was grinning, almost beside himself with happiness. England was a big more reserved with his glee, with a faint pink hue across his cheeks and a smile much softer than the American's grin.

"You're going to sleep in here, right?" America asked eagerly.

England regarded him for a moment. "On one condition: change out of those clothes and put on proper pyjamas."

America laughed and kissed England's cheek. "Sure, sure. I think I have some you can borrow. I accidentally shrunk a few things the last time I did laundry."

England rolled his eyes and slid out of his lap. "I'm not that much smaller than you."

Neither of them said anything more about the subject. England didn't even complain when America handed him the accidentally-shrunken clothes before gathering up his own and beginning to strip right there in the room. England turned even more pink and looked away, hesitating a few seconds before giving in and removing his own clothes, putting on the pajamas as quickly as possible.

America crawled into the bed first, snuggling down under the blankets in a child-like manner that England found endearing. He soon joined him, pulling up the covers in a much more dignified manner. Once comfortable, he closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment.

"Hey, England?" America rolled on his side to face the older nation. "You'll dance with me one day, right?"

England opened his eyes to meet America's, wondering where the question came from. For a moment, he stared into mischievous orbs of blue, and then his lips curved into a smirk. "Oh yes," he said with a teasing edge to his voice. "One day, we will dance."

 

* * *

 

 

_Part 2: Party_

*Several Months Later*

America loved parties. Especially birthday parties, even when they weren't his own. (Though he was one of the few who still celebrated his birthday with vigor. The other nations were usually a bit more relaxed about theirs.) However, when it came to the birthday's of the children of nations, he wasn't the only one enthusiastic about throwing a party.

"America!" Hungary exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere. "Perfect! Can you go help Prussia with the streamers? I have a feeling he's going to mess them up if he does it on his own. Thanks!" She patted his back and then was running off to go take care of something else, her brown hair billowing behind her.

The blond stood there for a moment, wondering what had just happened, and then shrugged and went to find Prussia.

It wasn't hard to find him. The albino was balanced precariously on a stepladder with a staple gun in one hand and a roll of red crepe paper in the other. France and Spain were standing on the ground, laughing at the spectacle he made and offering up advice that would only get him in more trouble. America stood back for a moment and watched them, his eyes glittering with amusement.

"Looks like you need the help of a hero!" He announced as he walked over to them.

Prussia swayed on the stepladder but didn't fall. "Someone as awesome as me doesn't need help!"

"I don't know about that,  _mi amigo,_ you look like you're having some trouble," Spain remarked.

Prussia glared at him and then stood up straight to staple the end of the crepe paper to a tree. It took him several tries to get it to stay, mostly because the ladder kept moving around. "Kesesesesese! Uneven ground is no match for me!"

France and Spain burst into laughter as Prussia tumbled off the ladder immediately after that proclamation. The albino cursed as he crawled out from under the ladder, leaving behind the crepe paper and staple gun.

"Fuck it! Hungary can put up this shit herself!" Prussia stood up and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at his friends as they continued to laugh. The potency of his glare was rendered ineffective as Gilbird fluttered down from the tree to perch in his white hair.

America stifled his laughter and took pity on the ex-nation, stepping forward to give him a hand. "C'mon, you don't really want her over here. She'll just guilt you into putting them up anyway." He easily picked up the stepladder with one hand and set it up right, finding a more even patch of ground so it wouldn't teeter back and forth again. He then retrieved the staple gun and crepe paper and held them out for Prussia to take. "Dude, someone as awesome as you can't be beaten by something like a ladder, right?"

Prussia stared at him for a moment and then smirked, reaching out for the objects. "Che! Of course not! Lets get this shit up!"

Spain and France watched the two for a few minutes, but quickly grew bored with how easily they were putting up the decorations. Spain was the first to wander off in search of his darling Romano. France stayed behind for a moment, his eyes focused solely on America.

"So, America, I hear you've been spending a lot of time with  _Angleterre_  lately," he remarked.

"Yup," grunted the American as he stapled another piece into place. He wiped his brow and turned his head to look at France, grinning. "Jealous?"

France rolled his eyes. " _Non_. If I wanted England's attention, I could easily get it." He snapped his fingers, a smirk forming on his face. "Just like  _that._  And then you'd be the jealous one,  _oui?_ "

"Nope. 'Cause he'd just be yelling at you," America replied. He turned back to his work and tossed the roll of red crepe paper back to Prussia, who easily caught it and began twisting it around before he stapled it into place. " _I_ can talk to him without getting yelled at."

"But was he not yelling when the two of you arrived?" France asked without skipping a beat. "I seem to recall Germany needing to step in the separate the two of you."

America shrugged and then caught the roll as Prussia tossed it back. "That was an argument, which is completely different from him just yelling at me. Kind of a stupid fight…stupid scones…" He looked contemplative as he twisted the roll of crepe paper. "Hey France, Canada isn't your and England's lovechild, is he?"

France stared at him for a moment before chuckling. " _Non, non._ Of course not. Is that what you were fighting about? Silly American."

"It's not stupid." Scowling, America harshly stapled the paper into place, missing the first time and putting a large dent into the tree. He did it correctly the second time. "Whenever I mention kids, England gets all defensive and either starts yelling or tries to change the subject. The only reason he came to Dafne's birthday party is because Italy nearly started crying when he said he might not be able to make it."

" _Angleterre_  doesn't have the best luck with young countries," France said, sounding somewhat amused. "There's you, who led a revolution against him."

"But-"

France cut off whatever he was going to say. "There's Canada, who requested his independence. Seychelles was next. Hong Kong left him to return to China. Sealand  _hates_ him." His voice softened, any trace of amusement gone. "I'm sure he's convinced himself that he's a horrible parent. It will take something great to get him to see otherwise."

"But I didn't leave him because he was a bad parent!" America exclaimed. He forgot all about hanging decorations and turned around to face France. "My people didn't like the laws he was passing! I loved living with England. I did…"

"Then why fight him?" Prussia spoke up.

America fidgeted with the paper, surprisingly silent. He murmured something and then turned around, not wanting to look at France or the albino across from him.

" _Pardon_?"

"Nothing," America said. He abruptly tore off the roll of crepe paper and hopped down the ladder. "Prussia, lets get the balloons up next. Then we'll be done here."

France stepped forward and grabbed America's arm as he reached for the bag of party balloons. "America, why fight him?"

"To prove I was strong," snapped the younger man, yanking his arm from the Frenchman's grip. His blazing blue eyes met France's surprised ones as words continued to tumble from his mouth. "To prove I could take care of myself! He kept treating me like a child. Like I couldn't take care of myself or dress myself properly. I hated it. I hated being treated like a little kid. I hated being seen as just a little brother. I-…" His voice faltered as he looked away from France. He shook his head and snatched up the bag of balloons, ripping it open as he stepped away from the small table the supplies were resting on. He picked out two green ones and two white ones, before walking over and handing the bag to Prussia, who set about finding the yellow and black balloons.

France followed America back to the other ladder, determined to get more information out of him. For once, it wasn't for blackmail purposes. He'd seen the looks the American and his favorite Englishman gave one another in meetings. How could he ignore that? He represented the country of love, and though he wasn't having a great amount of luck in the area (The other countries were beginning to ignore his daily flirtations, which was something he was planning on rectifying.  _Soon_.) he couldn't ignore a friend in need. Even if that friend was a clueless American whose actions he rarely agreed with.

"If you can't admit how you feel to me, how do you expect to be able to tell England?" France asked.

"France, you're the last person I'd go to for love advice," America muttered.

Prussia sniggered.

"But I am the country of love!" France passionately exclaimed.

"Then why'd Seychelles dump you for Greece?" Prussia asked cheekily.

France glared at him. "She didn't dump me. It was a mutual decision."

"Sure it was."

"It was!"

America ignored the two in favor of blowing up one of the balloons. His experience with throwing parties paid off as he quickly got it to the proper size and tied it off without it escaping his grasp to go flying through the air. He moved on to the second one, eyeing France and Prussia as they continued to argue. Their fight entertained him as he blew up the remaining three balloons and stapled them to the tree to cover up the ends of the crepe paper.

"America, if you want advice on love, go to Spain!" Prussia shouted over France's yelling. "He's an idiot when it comes to himself, but he is the country of passion!" He yelped as France hit him.

America took that as his opportunity to escape.

' _I don't need advice on love, I just wanna find out about England's kid! And if France and Prussia don't know, then Spain won't either. But who would?'_

_.  
_

* * *

.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but sometime between arriving and the actual start of the party, England found himself in charge of four hyperactive children. Why Hungary thought giving him the task was a good idea, he was still trying to figure out.

A giggling girl with light blonde hair grabbed his fingers, the single curl in her hair bouncing slightly. Her green dress fluttered around her ankles as she tried to tug him along and get him to play with her.

A second girl, one with curly dark hair and a vivid pink carnation pinned on the right side of her head, appeared and grabbed his other hand. She stuck her tongue out at a boy with hair a few shades darker than her own and a curl on his right side, enraging him. He began shouting in broken Italian, waving his hands around wildly, looking just like a younger version of his father.

England waited a moment, certain he was about to be bombarded by a forth child. Nothing came.

Startled, he looked around in search of the missing boy. It couldn't be too hard to find a boy with pale, silvery-blond hair wearing a red-and-white sweater, could it?

"Mikhail?" He called, his heartbeat picking up pace when he didn't see the child. He glanced down to the blonde girl. "Dafne, did you see where Mikhail went?"

She shook her head. "Nope!"

A sense of panic rose in England's chest. No! He couldn't lose his head! He had to stay calm and think rationally. Surely the Russo-Canadian couldn't have gotten far. He was only three-years-old!

Russia was going to kill him.

No, worse.  _Canada_  was going to kill him.

He looked to the dark-haired girl next. "Carmen, do you know?"

"Don't know," she replied. "Maybe  _fratello_ knows."

"Why would I know? I wasn't watching that jerk!"

England sighed, briefly wondering how Spain and Romano could put up with the boy on a daily basis. Then again, he was just like Romano, so Spain was probably immune to it. "Fiore, I want you to stay here and watch after the girls, okay? I'm going to go find Mikhail."

"No need, aru."

England flinched at the condescending tone in the voice. He cautiously looked over to see China standing there holding the hand of Mikhail, who had found a helium-filled balloon during his journey. Finland and Sweden were also there, and were quietly talking to Sealand, who was holding their small white dog. In Finland's arms was a snoozing child who couldn't have been more than a year old.

"But I don't want to stay with jerk-England!"

' _Please don't leave him here. He's old enough to go help!'_

He nearly groaned when Sweden patted the faux-country on the head and then wrapped one arm around Finland to maneuver him away from the children's area. Sealand stared after them for a moment and then turned around and glared at England, as if he were the reason his parents left him behind.

Deciding it was best to leave Sealand to his own devices, England slipped out of the girls' grasps to walk over to China. "Thanks for finding him."

China smiled pleasantly, though something about it felt fake to England. "I see why Hungary sent me over here to help. You've always been hopeless with children, aru."

England flinched, but managed to cover it up with a strangled laugh. "Yes, you're right! But who am I to demand the orders of a lady?"

"How gentlemanly of you," China said as he released Mikhail's hand. He gave the boy a gentle nudge, receiving a bright smile in response.

"Thanks for the balloon, Uncle China!" He waited until his uncle smiled back before grinning and running off to join the other three children and show off his shiny new balloon.

Fiore scoffed, saying something about how he didn't want a stupid balloon, while Dafne begged to hold it and Carmen wondered aloud if she could get a pink one. Sealand soon joined them, introducing himself as "Peter" and offering to tie a loop in the string so no one would accidentally lose it, like he'd done with his own balloons on numerous occasions.

"So, I hear you're dating America now," China remarked.

England looked at him wonderingly. If he didn't know better, he'd say the Asian country was genuinely curious. However, there was a slightly bitter tone to his voice that he'd become an expert at picking up on over the years. "Where'd you hear that?" He asked, keeping his voice even.

"Canada." China unflinchingly met his eyes. "England, this had better not be like before."

The Englishman's temper automatically flared up. "It's not. And it's none of your business what my relationship with America is!"

China narrowed his eyes. "You claim it's not like last time, but you're doing the  _same damn thing_. Why not let people know you're together? That would keep France from harassing you at every turn."

"I doubt that," England muttered. "The frog will never give up. He'll just invent new ways to annoy me. And don't change the subject!" His voice quickly rose to a yell. He paused and took a breath, trying to calm down. The last thing he wanted was for people to hear him arguing with China. It would destroy the image of being a gentlemen he tried so desperately to portray. "Everyone doesn't need to know. It's only been a few months."

"You've said that before," China said, a hard edge to his voice that England had only heard during times of war. "And look where it got us. We fought a war. You ripped apart my homeland." He clenched his fists. "You stole away  _my_ son."

England flinched. "China-"

"Listen!" Snapped the Asian man, sounding hopelessly and utterly defeated. The anger had left his voice when he spoke next, sadness the only lingering emotion. "Don't let this end the same way."

England stared at him for a moment. After all the times they'd been left in the same room together, never had the other nation spoken to him like that. And never once had they brought up the past. What had changed? Was it him dating America? Or was it something going on in the Chinese man's life?

"China, I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I-I really do regret what I did. What we did. I-I'm sorry."

China smiled sadly. "I wouldn't change it. History is everything to us. Without our history, who are we?" He turned around to leave, calling over his shoulder: "We're countries, England. All we can do is keep moving forward, aru. And just so you know…" He paused a moment but didn't look back at the Briton. "You're not the only one who is sorry."

.

* * *

.

It was amazing, really, how quickly he got distracted from his mission. And all it took was coming across his brother surrounded by the Asian nations, minus China.

When he first spotted them, Vietnam and Taiwan were toying with his brother's hair, most likely complimenting him on how pretty it was when he grew it out. Thailand was standing near the two girls, laughing about something. Japan was standing out of the way, watching his relatives with an expression on his face that told the world he didn't really understand what was going on. And then there was South Korea, who seemed torn between bothering Canada and harassing an Asian man who America wasn't familiar with.

"Hello, America-san," greeted Japan.

"Hey," America replied with a grin. "So, are the girls talking about how girly Canada looks with his hair like that? 'cause I've been listening to England complain about how he looks like France for the past few days. It's kind of annoying."

Japan chuckled at his friend's misfortune, his lips curving up into a small smile. "I'm sure he'll have more to complain about after today. I heard Germany-san mention how Hungary-san has him watching the kids."

America grimaced when he heard that. "Oh man. Why'd she go and do that? There's a ton of other countries running around. Why didn't you try to stop her?"

"I thought about it."

America sighed in disappointment. He had hoped the party would get England to loosen up a little and have fun, but if he was put in charge of the children first thing, he was going to be dealing with an extremely moody England for the remainder of the day. "I guess no one says no to Hungary. So, who's the guy talking to Korea?"

Japan glanced over to the Korean man, quickly noting who his current victim was. "That's Hong Kong. China's son."

America nodded in understanding. "Okay, cool. China's son." He paused a moment, blinking his big blue eyes in confusion as his brain translated the words. "Wait, since when does China have a son?"

Japan didn't answer the question.

Frowning and even more confused than before, America looked over to the Chinese man, already able to see the similarities between him and China. However, there was something distinctly  _not_ China. Something familiar. If he could only figure out what it was.

Just when he thought he might know what it was, something ran into his legs and stayed there. He looked down and immediately forgot all about China's son when he saw his nephew's big purple eyes. He laughed and swept the boy into his arms. "You get bigger every time I see you!"

"Uncle!" Mikhail squealed, giggling as America tickled his sides.

"Mikhail?" Canada escaped from the girls to hover by his brother's side, frowning at his son. "Why are you out here? Where's England?"

Mikhail quieted down and stopped struggling, curling his fingers into America's red-white-and-blue shirt. For a moment he didn't say anything but then he smiled at his papa and said: "England was boring, so I ran away!"

America did his best not to laugh at the statement. However, his resolve broke the moment he looked down at Mikhail and saw the proud expression on the boy's face.

"Mikhail!" A voice shouted out over the din of everyone talking. England soon came into view, holding the hand of a little blonde girl.

America's chuckling abruptly ended when he saw the panicked expression on the other nation's face. Guilt over laughing about his nephew's statement washed over him as the image of England with a hurt expression flashed in his mind's eye. America knew that if he ever heard Mikhail say that, he'd feel crushed.

He handed the boy over to Canada and then stepped away from the group of Asian countries to flag down his… Boyfriend? Lover? He wasn't even sure how to refer to England when it came to their relationship. Were they even dating? Sure, they went out for dinner sometimes or to movies and America had managed to drag the Briton to an amusement park one day. Not to mention all the times they'd made out on the couch. And he no longer had to sleep in the guest bedroom when he visited England.

America shook his head, wanting to clear his mind of those thoughts. It really wasn't the right time to contemplate the nature of their relationship.

As he opened his mouth to call out to England, he realized the Briton wasn't alone. Right behind him was China, holding the hands of Spain and Romano's twins while Sealand walked beside them on his own, still holding the small white puppy. He watched as China caught up to England and said something to him, his expression cross.

"I hope they don't fight again," Canada murmured.

Distracted from his original goal, America turned to look at his brother. "Again?"

Canada nodded. "It was a while ago…back before Mikhail started talking. China was over helping me out with chores and taking care of Mikhail when England dropped by. I think he needed to talk to Russia about something. I don't really remember what they were arguing about… I remember England came in to see Mikhail before he left, but I was folding laundry and China was in the room singing him to sleep. I heard yelling and ran in to see what was going on. Then Russia came downstairs. He kicked them out. Then he refused to talk to China for about a week. It took him two months to talk to England without insulting him."

America nodded. He remembered that. Meetings were very interesting for those two months.

Watching the two fight as they walked towards them, America suddenly thought of Hong Kong. Like he thought, there was a great similarity between him and China. But there was something different. Something…

His gaze slid over to England. At first he found himself focused on the older nation's lips, or more specifically the things he did with them when they were alone.

' _Not the time!'_ He quickly reminded himself, forcing himself to look away. When he refocused his eyes, he found himself staring at England's eyebrows. Seconds ticked by slowly as his brain processed a thought that he wasn't sure he could really believe.  _'…It couldn't be…'_

"… _Hong Kong left him to return to China…"_ France's words from earlier played over in his head, followed by a much more welcome voice.

" _He's with his mother and is much happier than when he was with me."_ It'd been months since England told him that, but he could still remember what he said, word-for-word.

From that moment on, even as Dafne's third birthday party kicked into full swing, America found his mind drifting back to one thought whenever he looked at one of the three.

' _Hong Kong…who is he?'_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Part 3: Home

America was running out of ideas.

First, none of the Asian countries would tell him anything about Hong Kong, other than him being China's son. China himself completely brushed off all questions about the Special Administration Region, excusing himself from America's presence as quickly as possible. And when he tried to talk to Hong Kong, there was always someone else around to interrupt them. (The last time they were interrupted, it was by Iceland and South Korea and things had gotten so awkward that America wasn't even sure if he made an excuse to leave before he practically ran out of the room.)

Second, talking about children around England had become near impossible since Dafne's birthday party.

Just the other day he mentioned Canada wanting them to baby-sit Mikhail for the day and England started yelling about how America never asked if he wanted to do anything and instead just did whatever he wanted. Then he stomped out of the house. Several hours later, America got a call from a nearby bar and had to go retrieve the drunken nation.

The following day, England spend the entire morning ignoring him. When he finally spoke again, it was to say that he was returning home and for America to not follow him.

Like he was really going to do what England said.

But first, he needed some advice.

"So, you think Hong Kong is England's son?" Lithuania asked cautiously.

America nodded. "Yeah! I mean, it makes sense, right? All I can get out of Japan is how Hong Kong is China's son and none of them will tell me who the mother is. I wouldn't've thought of this before, I mean, we didn't know guy countries can give birth or anything."

Lithuania frowned, thinking things over before he said anything. "Maybe… That would explain why neither of them were too surprised about Canada being able to get pregnant. I think they were more shocked about Russia being the father. I know I was." He laughed. "I always thought it'd be Belarus having Russia's kid! She's rather… tenacious. It's cute though."

"Er, sure. If you say so," America said with a shrug.

Poland peeked into the room, his green eyes narrowed and directed at Lithuania, who squeaked in surprise. "Who's cute?" He asked, a warning edge to his voice.

"Y-you are!" Lithuania quickly said. "Very cute! E-especially in your new dress!"

Poland beamed and spun around, enjoying the feel of the cotton-candy pink dress as it swished around his bare legs. "Thanks, Liet!"

Lithuania breathed a sigh of relief when the blond vanished back in the kitchen. "Okay, so say Hong Kong really is England and China's son. How is that going to help your relationship with England? It seems to me that he'd try to avoid you even more than he is now. He might even break up with you."

"I won't let him run away. I'll tie him up if I have to!" America exclaimed.

"I-I don't think that's going to help, America."

"Well at least then he'd sit still long enough to listen to me! If he stops yelling." America sighed and slumped back against his couch. "Okay, so tying him up wouldn't work. Maybe he'll listen if I sit on him and threaten to not get up until he talks to me. What do you think, Lithuania?"

"That would be better than tying him up…"

Poland made his reappearance, loudly munching on a pretzel stick and carrying the entire tub of pretzels. He sat down on the couch beside America and stared at him with unnerving green eyes.

"Poland, what-"

The cross-dressing blond held up a hand, silencing Lithuania. He quickly finished his pretzel stick and then spoke. "Okay, so I, like, totally know what you should do. But first you have to tell me, like, why you want to know about Hong Kong."

America hesitated.

"Tell me or I'll make Warsaw your capital!" Poland cheerfully threatened.

Lithuania groaned softly, but didn't try to reprimand his boyfriend. He wouldn't listen anyway.

America looked away from Poland, for once thinking his words over carefully. He had no problem running his mouth at meetings or while hanging out at Canada's house, but when it came to England and how he felt about the man, things got a lot more complicated. With all of the trouble they'd been having, even if he weren't there to hear him talk, he still wanted to get across how he was feeling without making a fool of himself or saying the wrong thing.

"Remember right after Mikhail was born? Canada and Russia had that fight and Russia went home to sulk for about a week before he came back. I went up to stay with Canada for that week. Y'know, to help him out. I spent most of my time there taking care of Mikhail. It was kind of hard at first. I didn't know what I was doing." He paused to laugh, a small smile remaining on his face. "But after that first day or so, it was kind of fun. And it got better when Canada started coming out of his room. Maybe that's when it started…

"Even when Russia returned, I'd still go up and help Canada out when I had free time. I was there when Mikhail started to walk. And I was the first person he called 'uncle'!" America grinned at the memory. Then, slowly, he sobered up, his good cheer vanishing.

"I guess I got kind of jealous after a while. Don't get me wrong, I'm really happy for Canada! I mean, he's got a great kid and, sure Russia isn't the country I thought he'd end up with, but he makes my bro happy. It's just… I don't wanna only be an uncle."

Neither Poland nor Lithuania dared to say anything.

"It might be nice to be a dad," America said. "I think I'd like to have a girl. One with England's green eyes and my awesome hair. But… I mean, England's not really fond of kids. No, that's not right." He frowned, stopping to get his thoughts in order again. "I don't really know how to explain it. He's not scared of 'em. More like nervous. Like any little thing he does'll make them hate him. Which isn't true. Dafne and Carmen adore him. I wish I could understand why he thinks that…"

Lithuania quickly spoke up. "America, England has had rather unfortunate luck when it comes to young countries. Perhaps that's why he feels that way."

"Yeah, France said something similar," America said. "And then Prussia had to ask me that stupid question…"

"What question?" Poland asked.

"Just, y'know, about the revolution. I don't wanna talk about it."

Lithuania wasn't about to let him get away with not talking about what was possibly the most important detail to understanding England. "America, you invited me here to help you. If you won't talk about it, I won't be able to help you decide what to do. So either talk or we're going home."

"No!" America yelled in alarm. "Don't go! I'll talk. I, um, don't really know where to start."

"Why revolt?" Poland asked. "I know that, like, your people weren't really happy. That's obvious. But didn't you go out and fight with them?"

America flinched. "I-I did. And that's when England fought alongside his people too." He hesitated a moment, worrying his upper lip. He always tried so hard not to think of that period of time. It was the biggest reason he couldn't clean out his storage room. He had so many happy memories of those years with England, but any sign of that single horrible span of time and he had to get out of the room. "I don't think I really wanted to leave him back then… but there was so much going on. My people weren't happy. They started to revolt on their own. I just got all caught up in the whirlwind of emotion disrupting everyone. And…and I was kind of annoyed with him. Maybe angry. Tired of being treated like a little kid. Like a little brother. Maybe I was in love with him even back then. I dunno."

America tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. He avoiding looking at Poland or Lithuania, knowing he wouldn't be able to continue if he did. If he pretended like they weren't there, he could keep speaking.

"I remember one thing. I wanted to show him that I wasn't weak. That I could take care of myself. That I didn't need to be babied by him anymore. I never thought he'd leave me all alone afterwards… But my people were happy, so I tried not to let it bother me. I threw myself into other things. Manifest Destiny and all of that. Think I pissed off Spain a couple of times… And France. And Canada. Mexico too." He grinned and tapped his glasses. "He still hasn't forgiven me for the whole Texas thing."

Poland stood up, taking the jug of pretzels with him. "Well, this has been totes cool and all, but me and Liet need to, like, go now."

"Huh?" Lithuania and America chimed in unison.

America looked away from the ceiling, his sky blue eyes confused as he peered at the Polish man. "Whaddya mean? Aren't you staying for dinner?"

"Nope." Poland patted the jug. "I'm taking these. C'mon, Liet!" Too impatient to wait for Lithuania to get up by himself, he marched over and pulled his boyfriend to his feet. Then, rather than let go of him and head for the door, he dragged Lithuania along with him.

"Poland! What are you doing?"

"Bye, America~!" Poland happily called over his shoulder.

America stared at the two as they vanished into the hallway, Lithuania struggling the entire time. After a few minutes, he heard the front door open and then shut as the two went outside. "What the hell?" He muttered, unaware of anything other than how strange Poland was acting.

A weight settled beside him on the couch. The scent of freshly brewed tea reached his nose.

"I knew you weren't weak."

A shiver went down America's spine. "England," he whispered, looking over at his boyfriend.

The other country was sitting rigidly beside him, avoiding his gaze entirely. He held a china saucer in his lap and his other hand was curled around the matching cup. "The reason I left you here alone when I returned to my land was because I knew you were strong enough to survive. I knew you'd thrive and continue to grow even without me here to constantly guide you."

"So, you heard all of that, huh…"

"Indeed."

An awkward silence fell over them.

America fiddled with the long sleeves of his shirt, tugging at the cuffs and twisting the button around.

England continued to sit still, staring into the mesmerizing iridescence of his tea. Even as the hot liquid began to cool, he didn't drink it.

"Hong Kong is my son."

America flinched, startled by how soon England broke the silence.

"Odd, to say that again after so many years. Normally we deny any relation to one another. China certainly never speaks of it. And no other country knows that I am his father, or they didn't until you began to figure it out."

"I'm sor-"

"Perhaps you're not as clueless as I thought," England interrupted. "It's comforting to know I'm not in love with a complete imbecile."

"I'm not stupid!"

England rolled his eyes, finally looking over at the younger country, annoyance reflecting in green depths. "Belt up and listen to me, America. You've been bothering me for weeks about the events of my past. I suppose it's time I tell you."

For once in his life, America stayed quiet when England asked him to.

"China and I were never in love. It was a relationship born out of frustration and loneliness. Back then, we had no idea male countries have the ability to carry children and so we weren't exactly careful when it came to sex. So you can imagine my surprise when China gave me the news."

.

* * *

.

_China slowly approached the blond nation after a frustratingly unproductive meeting regarding trade between his country and England's. He seemed nervous about something, if the way he kept casting his golden brown eyes around the room was any indication._

_England raised an eyebrow when the Asian man stopped in front of him._

" _England, I-I'm going to have a baby."_

_The European man's mind went blank at those words. Of all the things he expected to hear, that was the furthest from his mind. If anything, he expected to hear China ask him over for dinner or to announce they weren't going to see one another anymore._

" _What?" England's voice rose shrilly before he could get a proper grip on his emotions. "How? That shouldn't be possible!"_

" _I don't know, aru!" China sounded just as panicked as England felt. "What are we going to do?"_

_England stared at him for a few minutes, taking the time to get his thoughts in order and form a plan. "You'll have the baby. However, we tell no one of this, understood? Until it's born, we will meet and discuss what to do with the child. I suppose it all really depends on whether or not it is like us."_

_China frowned, but agreed with him._

_.  
_

 

* * *

 

.

"That was when we began fighting," England said. "The stress of having a child together and keeping it from all of the other nations began to wear away at our already thin patience. Not that China has much of that on a normal day. We couldn't agree on anything. And then it began influencing our political relationship. So many things went on during that period of time that when Hong Kong was finally born I had decided to take him under my wing and raise him as a colony of England. Unfortunately, China got custody of him for those first few years.

"When it was finally my turn… I'll admit that I was nervous. I wasn't sure what to expect. But when I saw him for the first time, I forgot all about being afraid.  _I_ had a son. And though he wasn't born out of love, I knew from that moment that I loved him."

England's eyes lost their intensity as he thought about the years he spent with his son. He began to relax, his back curving softly as he lowered his gaze to his tea cup. "He was a good kid. When he was young, I could tell he enjoyed living with me and learning English traditions. I even sent him to school for a time so he could socialize. I had hoped he could make friends there. For a while, things went as perfectly as I could have hoped."

.

* * *

.

" _Father! Father, look what I made!" A giggling boy with shaggy brown hair ran over to England, holding a roughly sewn pillow with a velvet 'A' on top. His golden-brown eyes shone happily as he showed his accomplishment to his father._

_England smiled as his looked at the pillow. "It's beautiful, Aubrey."_

" _It's for you!"_

" _For me?" England felt as though he could never feel happier than he did at that moment. His thoughtful son had made something for him with his own two hands. Tears of overwhelming happiness prickled at his eyes as he knelt down and hugged his son. "Thank you. I love it."_

" _Love you, father."_

_.  
_

 

* * *

 

.

"What happened?" America quietly asked.

The corners of England's mouth tugged up into a wry smile. "He grew up. He became a teenager. The tension between myself and China grew even worse. It amazes me today that I was able to keep Hong Kong happy for as long as I did. I suppose it's partly thanks to his people. However, my fury towards his mother bothered Hong Kong and so he made up his mind to go back."

America's eyes widened. It was unusual for a country to influence his people to make a choice like that. Normally, it was the people of a nation who held the greatest influence.

"So now you know. It didn't matter what I did. Each of my colonies eventually left me, one-by-one. My own son won't even talk to me anymore, aside from a terse greeting if I'm lucky. China and I are-well, we're talking civilly again, I suppose. If you consider him complaining about everything I do being civil."

America couldn't help but grin at the last sentence, knowing first hand that the complaining went both ways.

England caught the grin from the corner of his eye and scowled at the younger nation. "Wipe that look off of your face, America."

"Oh, c'mon England. You're finally talking to me!" America said, unable to keep his happiness from leaking into his voice. He leaned against England, resting his head on the man's shoulder while sneaking one arm around to settle comfortably around the Briton's waist. "It's nice to know this stuff. I mean, now I kind of get why you're all awkward around kids and stuff."

England wasn't ready to relax completely yet. "But you still want children."

"Yup."

"Then why be with me? You know I don't want children."

America sighed softly. "Because maybe one day I'll be able to show you you're not a bad dad. I'll wait for however long it takes."

"America…" England murmured, surprised. Lost for words, he kissed the younger country on the forehead, hoping it would be enough to convey how he felt.

America smiled and snuggled against his boyfriend. "I love you too, England."

 

* * *

 

 

_Chapter 4: Problems_

America stared down at his unbuttoned pants. He didn't understand it. He'd been careful with what he ate, sticking to the foods and boxed lunches Japan recommended for him. Sure he had the occasional unhealthy snack, but he made sure to exercise to make up for that.

Even back when he ate hamburgers every day of the week he didn't have a problem fitting into his pants.

"I'm getting fat," he told himself, not for the first time. "That's all."  _It can't be anything else._ "I'll just have to exercise more. Cut back on snacks. Yeah. That'll fix everything."

He jumped in surprise when someone knocked on the bathroom door.

"America, hurry up or we'll be late for the party."

"H-hold on!" America called back, cursing mildly as he kicked off tugged off his pants. He stuffed it away in his duffle bag, fishing out a pair of pants he'd bought recently, just in case he hadn't lost any of his recently added weight. He pulled them on, easily pulling up the zipper and buttoning them up. He tried not to notice that they fit more snugly than when he'd tried them on in the store two weeks before.

After checking his appearance in the mirror, America kicked his bag to the side and opened the door. He grinned when he saw England standing there, fidgeting with his bowtie.

"Hey, sweetie," he greeted, kissing the shorter blond on the cheek.

Predictably, England's face reddened. "Don't call me that." He stepped back and eyed America up and down before nodding. "You clean up well for a Yankee."

"Thanks," America said, knowing it was the closest thing to a complement he was going to get. "You look good too."

England cleared his throat, his face darkening to a deeper red as he reached up to straighten America's tie. He toyed with it for a few minutes, and even after he fixed it he avoided looking at the younger nation's face. "Yes, well, I suppose you're ready. Perhaps this time it will stay around your neck and not on your head. I still don't understand how that happened."

"Got distracted taking it off or something," America said with a shrug. "Hey…" He gently ran one hand over England's chest, over his collar bone, and then along his neck to tilt his head up and look him in the eyes. "I love you."

"G-git," England stammered.

America's smile didn't fade in the least as he bent down slightly and pressed his lips against England's in a chaste kiss. "Alright. Let's get to that party!"

.

* * *

.

Canada raised an eyebrow as he watched his brother make himself a cheeseburger.

It wasn't one of the American's usual cheeseburgers, though it had started out that way. Hamburger, cooked on the stove with a slice of cheese placed on top. The bottom bun smeared with mustard. A few pieces of lettuce dropped on top of the cheese once the meat was finished cooking. Some ketchup and pickles. And then finally the top half of the bun.

But then America took a bite and claimed that it was missing something. And so off came the top bun so he could sprinkle seasoning over it.

It was still missing something.

Naturally, America tried a few more things, each one odder than the next.

"America, ice cream isn't going to fix it," Canada said as his brother moved for the freezer. He had to draw the line somewhere and clearly ice cream was it. Especially since it was  _his_ maple flavored ice cream, which America always made fun of him for.

America stopped and stared helplessly at Canada. "But my burger doesn't taste right! I don't know what it's missing! Something sweet maybe? See, ice cream  _would_ fix it!"

"What? No!" Canada sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thankful that Russia had taken Mikhail out to the park to play with kids. Hopefully the two would return without news of his son injuring someone again, accident or not. "Ice cream on a hamburger, America? That's just messed up!"

"I dunno. It sounds delicious to me."

"There are other sweet things you can put on…  _that._ " Canada pointed to the burger, unsure of what to call it anymore.

"Like what?" America asked.

Canada didn't have to think for long. In a matter of seconds, he was striding across the room and pulling a bottle from the pantry. "Like this!" He exclaimed, holding it out to his brother.

America carefully took it and stared at the bottle. "Maple syrup?"

"Just try it."

Shrugging, America twisted off the cap and poured some out, not stopping until it began dripping over the sides. The bottle was set to the side without a second thought and the bun replaced back on top of the burger concoction before America lifted it up and took a big bite. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before lowering the burger to stare at it.

Canada hoped there wasn't anything else America wanted to add to it.

"Canada…"

The tone the American was using only served to worry the Canadian.

"W-what?"

America stayed silent for a moment, still staring at the burger. Then, slowly, he looked over at Canada. "This stuff is totally genius, bro! Can I have the bottle? I think it'd make even England's scones taste great!"

Privately thinking that  _nothing_ could make England's scones taste better, even the greatness that was maple syrup, Canada agreed to America's request. After all, it was just one bottle. He had at least fifty more stashed around the house. Hopefully. Unless Prussia had found his secret hiding places during one of his break-ins.

America beamed at his brother. "Thanks!"

As his brother scarfed down the burger concoction, Canada began to notice something not right. Or rather, something different about the other blond. The longer he watched the American, the more he noticed and pieced together.

"America, have you gained weight?"

America paused in the process of licking his fingers clean. "Huh? Whaddya mean?" Panic flashed across his face. "Is it that noticeable? I've been trying to be careful!"

Canada doubted that.

"Seriously! This is the first burger I've had in over a month! I just figured that, you know, since I'm up here to hang with you and all, one wouldn't hurt anything. But don't tell Japan! I promised I'd stick to the diet he's been recommending for me," America said, sounding a little panicked. "I-is it not working? I don't get it! I've been working out and eating good food and sure I eat a pint of ice cream on some nights, but that shouldn't affect me this badly, right? I mean, I'm a little bigger than Japan so it's alright if I have an extra snack every now and then and I heard somewhere that it's better to eat when you first get hungry rather than wait until you're starving but I've been hungry a lot lately so sometimes I have to wait until I'm really hungry because otherwise I'd be eating every hour, y'know?"

Canada sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for his brother to finish rambling. He knew he wouldn't get a word in edgewise even if he tried to speak.

"I've even been trying not to eat snacks at night lately! I mean, it's kind of hard since I stay up until two most nights and it's always right about midnight that I start getting hungry again. But if I go to bed with my stomach growling England always kicks me out and tells me to go eat something so I don't keep him up all night. But by then I'm too tired to make anything so I just end up eating chips or crackers and one time I ate the rest of England's cereal and didn't tell him and he yelled at me in the morning when he found out it was all gone and then he made breakfast and I couldn't just tell him I didn't wanna eat it because then he'd be even angrier, so I ate whatever it was but he yelled at me anyway because I was still hungry afterwards and I guess he thought I was just pretending to eat it even though I really did eat it." America paused to take a breath at last.

Canada took a chance to jump in. "How long has this been going on?"

"And-huh?" America asked, looking at his brother in confusion. "Whaddya mean, bro?"

"How long have you been feeling hungry like this?" Canada elaborated. "A few weeks? A couple months?"

America shrugged. "A couple of months, I guess. Maybe two. Or three. I'm not really sure. Do you think I look fat? I noticed I'd gained some weight when we had that party the other month, but I didn't think I'd gained more since then…" He sighed and looked down at his stomach. "Maybe I was trying not to notice."

Canada hesitated, trying to figure out how he should word his next sentence. He had a feeling he knew what was going on, but America wasn't going to like it. And if what he'd heard from France and Russia was correct, England was going to like it even less.

"America… I don't think it's exactly fat you've gained."

"Uhh, bro, I don't think this is what muscle looks like."

"That's not what I meant!" Canada snapped. "Maybe you should sit down."

"Nah, I'm good. So whaddya think it is? I mean, it's gotta be fat," America laughed. "What else could it be?"

"I think you're pregnant."

America stumbled backwards, his sky blue eyes wide. "What? But that's crazy! I'm not! I can't be! Just because I've been eating more lately? I-it's probably just because I've been more active!"

Canada sighed. "America, you just ate the strangest burger I've ever seen you make."

"There was nothing wrong with my burger!"

"You tried to put mint chips on it! And then you poured maple syrup on there along with everything else and acted as if it's the greatest thing you've ever tasted!" Canada shouted. " _Merde!_ I'm surprised you didn't add chocolate and then try to deep fry it!"

Rather than look affronted by the idea, America looked rather intrigued. "A deep fried chocolate burger… Oh man, that sounds  _really_  good, bro. I'll have to try that when I get home."

Canada growled low in frustration and stood up, marching over to the chorded phone on the wall.

"Bro?"

Ignoring his brother's questioning tone, Canada picked up the phone and put it to his ear before he began dialing. He waited a few seconds before the person he was calling answered. "Russia? No, everything's fine. Mikhail hasn't hurt anyone, has he? … Okay, good. Actually, I was calling to ask you to stop by the store and get something before you come home. Could you get a couple different types of pregnancy tests?" His face fell at Russia's next few words and he turned his back to America so his quick-to-act brother wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. "N-no, it's not for me. Russia, you know we can't… W-we can't have another baby. They're for America." He listened for a few seconds. "Thanks, Russia. I love you."

America watched as Canada hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes before turning around to face him with a pasted-on smile.

"Russia's bringing home a few tests. He says Mikhail's about ready to leave anyway. He gets bored playing with human children. Something about them breaking too easily." He sighed. "I'm starting to think he's more Russian than Canadian." His smile broke as he hiccupped.

"Cana-"

Canada darted out of the room, moving so quickly America almost lost sight of him.

For once, America decided to move a little more slowly and give his brother some space before he went to find him. He washed his hands first, figuring it would be best to get the rest of the sticky maple syrup off of his fingers. He took his time finding a dishtowel to dry them off on and then set off to hunt down his brother.

America found him on the couch, curled up in a ball and clutching an oversized stuffed dog which most likely belonged to Mikhail. His heart ached when he noticed his brother shuddered with every sob that slipped by. Carefully, he sat down on the couch and pulled Canada against him, wrapping his arms around the other nation tightly.

Canada released the stuffed toy so he could cling to America instead.

"Hey, it'll be okay," America said softly. "So what if he ends up being one of Russia's cities or whatever. That doesn't make him any less Canadian."

"B-but what if he forgets me? I don't want him to forget me. I don't want to be invisible again. I couldn't take that."

America ran his hand through Canada's hair soothingly, avoiding going anywhere near the hair curl. "I don't think that's possible anymore. You've changed a lot since you started dating Russia. I haven't forgotten you since Mikhail was born. I don't think anyone has. Except for, you know, nations we don't see too often, but they don't count 'cause they don't know how awesome you are."

Canada couldn't help but smile at the statement, though it quickly faded.

"Bro, Mikhail could never forget you. You're his papa. Besides, sometimes I think Russia saw you years before you two got together. Unless he really was just staring at an empty chair." America frowned. "Kind of creepy, if you ask me. But hey, you love who you love, y'know? Damn, I forgot my point. Oh yeah! See, if he is a Russian city, there's no way he's gonna forget you because Russia never will. Besides, you've been finding ways to make yourself heard lately. You've been speaking up, bro. I'm proud of you!"

"Thanks," Canada whispered.

For a few minutes, the brothers sat in silence. Canada's breathing slowly evened out as tears stopped flowing and soon after, he pulled free from America's hold and sat back against the couch.

"It's not just about Mikhail…" Canada paused for a few long seconds. "You're lucky. Even though England doesn't want kids, the option is still there. You can have kids. But I… I can't. Not anymore." He looked over at his brother. "I really wanted her. I'd hoped Mikhail was going to be a girl, but he isn't. And when I got pregnant again and found out it was a little girl, I was so happy. Russia was too. But then…"

"Yeah," America said, knowing Canada didn't want to finish the sentence. It amazed him that the nation was willing to say anything about the loss of his second child. For once, he didn't pretend to not read the atmosphere. They needed a change of topic. Or at least a natural turn in the one before them. "So you really think I'm not fat?"

Canada chuckled, though it wasn't an entirely happy sound. "Sorry, I don't think you're fat. We'll find out whose right once Russia gets back."

Though part of America hoped his brother was wrong, an even bigger part prayed he was correct.

.

* * *

.

America paced back and forth in England's sitting room, wringing his hands. It'd been a week since his trip to visit Canada. It'd been a week since his brother forced him to see the truth. It'd been a week since he started avoiding England, unsure of how to break the news to him.

Somehow, Canada found out (America was going to assume that it had something to do with France) and threatened to get himself and Russia involved, so America decided it was in his best interest to talk to his boyfriend on his own.

That was why he was nervously pacing in the man's house, waiting for him to return from a meeting with his boss.

(Speaking of bosses, America had yet to tell his own about any of the recent developments or even that he was dating England. It was a rather awkward subject to bring up.)

With every minute that ticked by, America got more and more worried and began to seriously consider running back home to curl up under his blankets for another week.

He froze when he heard the doorknob on the front door rattle before the door itself squeaked open, allowing England to step over the threshold.

"…and I'm telling you, something hasn't been right with America lately. No, I don't know. I haven't seen the bloody git all week. In fact, I haven't seen him since he went to visit you, Canada. If anyone knows what is wrong with him, it would be you."

England walked past the sitting room with only a quick glance inside. Seconds later, he cursed and flipped his phone shut, doubling back to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

"America? What are you doing here?"

"I-uh-we need to talk."

"Talk?" England repeated. Despair rose within him. He'd heard those words before. They were rarely followed by something pleasant. "Can't it wait until later, America? I've had a long day."

America shook his head. "No. C'mon, lets sit down. Please?"

England couldn't refuse that pleading voice, nor those big blue eyes. Before he knew it, he was walking across the room to the couch. To his surprise, the second he was settled comfortably on the couch, America sat down next to him as close as he could possibly get without sitting on his lap.

"What on earth is wrong?" England asked, puzzled by his boyfriend's behavior. "You've been avoiding me all week and now suddenly you can't wait to get close to me."

If possible, America curled around him even more as he dropped his head on England's shoulder. "Please don't be angry."

"Angry? Why would I be angry? Sure, I'm annoyed that you've clearly been avoiding me all week without so much as an explanation," England said. "I know you were home all those times I dropped by. If you're going to pretend you're away, don't turn out all of the lights when someone walks up to your house."

"Sorry."

England didn't at all like the somber mood the American was in. "Come now, America, tell me what's bothering you."

"I, um…"

England's mind automatically finished the sentence with what he felt was the worst case scenario.

_I broke your favorite china set._

_I'm breaking up with you._

_I don't want to see you again._

_I hate you._

"I'm pregnant."

England stared down at the younger nation in shock. Of all the things he thought he was going to hear, that wasn't even close. But still, those two simple words filled him with dread. He felt ill.

America held his breath, waiting for the yelling to begin. He could already feel the tension pulling even more tightly than before, buzzing around them like an angry swarm of bees. All he could do was wait.

England detangled himself from America in an instant and stood up, his heart thundering in his ears.

He had to leave.

He had to get away.

Quickly.

Before he did or said something he would regret.

America watched him leave without saying a word. The moment the Englishman was out of the room, he broke down into tears and curled up on the couch, unable to find the strength to leave.

.

* * *

.

England returned several hours later, after hunting down France to get advice. (Although the flirtatious blond could never keep his hands to himself and England had to constantly fight off advances, he  _was_ one of his oldest friends and sometimes gave decent advice.) He'd found his friend hanging out with Spain and Prussia, who overheard what was going on when he dragged France away from them to talk.

It was odd, to get scolded by  _Spain,_  of all nations, for leaving America all alone in his house. Not because the Spaniard ever ran off on Romano (in fact, England was sure the Italian had the exact opposite problem), but because he was normally so oblivious to anything that didn't involve Romano, the twins, or his tomato plants.

Between France's completely unhelpful advice, Prussia's comments of how "completely un-awesome" he was being, and Spain's rambling, England finally had an idea of what he should do. Of what he should have done the second America told him.

He just hoped the younger nation was still at his house.

He checked the sitting room first.

There, stretched out on the couch with his hands resting on his stomach, was America, fast asleep.

England found his eyes drawn to the American's belly.

How had he not noticed? It seemed so obvious when he started to think about it. America had been complaining about gaining weight for over a month and whenever he tried cutting back on food, he complained about being hungry all the time. England hadn't paid much attention to the weight gain, figuring his lover was sneaking hamburgers. He also knew about the freezer raids America went on at night when he was craving ice cream.

_Cravings… now I understand why Canada told me about that obscene burger America made while visiting him._

Gathering his courage, England walked across the room until he was standing in front of the couch. He carefully kneeled down on the floor, content with just watching his lover sleep for a few minutes.

America slumbered on, aware of England sitting just mere inches away.

England cautiously moved a little closer. He slowly inhaled and then exhaled, trying to stay calm and not panic and run away again. Shakily, he reached out and rested his hand on top of America's.

America mumbled something in his sleep, wiggling a little before he finally opened his eyes. "England?"

"Hey," the Briton softly whispered. "Can you forgive this old fool?"

"You're not angry?"

England shook his head. "No. I'm a little surprised, but not angry."

America sighed in relief. "I'm glad. I got scared when you ran out. Thought for sure you'd never talk to me again."

"Budge up, I want to sit down."

The American carefully sat up, making room for England. The second the older nation sat down, America maneuvered his way onto his lap and wrapped his arms around the man's neck.

"I love you, England."

_And I love you, America._  He wanted to say the words back. Wanted to make sure America knew just how much he cared for him. But the second he opened his mouth to speak it was like he lost all capability to speak.  _I love you. I love you so much._

_.  
_

 

* * *

 

.

England was not panicking. Absolutely not. He was the mighty United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He did not panic. Ever.

Unless, of course, America was involved. Over the course of the past month, he had been sent into a frenzy no less than eight times thanks to the American and his false contractions. (It was partly his own fault. England's love of reading had proven to be less than a good thing as he kept learning about everything that could go wrong with a pregnancy.) It'd gotten so bad that their doctor jokingly remarked that they live out the rest of the pregnancy in the hospital, rather than rush in twice a week.

England thought it was a great idea.

America did not.

And so, in order to make England chill out, America forced him to return to Europe for a few days and invited Canada, Mikhail, and (reluctantly) Russia to make their way down to stay with him.

Though he had a feeling that something was going to go wrong, England reluctantly left to take care of business at home. The feeling intensified the moment his plane touched down on British soil. His fairy friends buzzed around him in concern, also sensing that something was off.

Canada called him later that night, sounding frazzled enough that he kept breaking off into French. In the end, after asking the young country to repeat himself several times, England understood that they'd rushed America to the hospital after he complained about pain all day.

Thus began his rush to return to America.

He would  _not_ miss the birth of his child.

Not again.

After a frantic call to his boss, buying a plane ticket to get  _back_ to the United States, barely making it to the airport in time to catch his plane, the flight across the ocean, then being unable to land the plane due to complications (which were quickly resolved), then having a brief scare with airport security and nearly getting arrested, and hailing a cab and driving to the hospital (blissfully uneventful), he finally made it to the right part of the hospital.

The rest of his "family" was already there, though Canada was missing. Russia was sitting near Mikhail, who was happily coloring in his coloring book with a box of crayons. France was sitting a few chairs over, looking as composed as ever.

"You're late,  _mon ami,_ " France said the second he spotted the Briton.

England tactfully ignored him, for once not taking the bait. "Where's America? Is he alright?"

" _Alfred_  is fine," France stressed, trying to remind his old friend of the importance of using their human names in public. "Come sit. We shouldn't have much longer to wait."

England's heart sank. "Y-you mean I missed it? I  _told_ that git I shouldn't go back ! He never listens to me!"

"He wanted to wait. They tried a few things," France said. "But it seems your child has Alfred's impatience. Now sit and wait with us! Mathieu should be out anytime to tell us how things went."

Rather than sit down, England began to pace back and forth, muttering curses under his breath.

"Papa!"

There was a clatter as Mikhail jumped down from his chair, scattering crayons all over the floor and dropping his coloring book. He ran over to Canada, holding up his arms to be picked up, which his papa was happy to do.

"Uncle's okay,  _da_?" Mikhail asked.

" _Oui_ ," Canada replied. "Everything's fine. The baby's a healthy seven pounds." He glanced over to England, who had ceased his pacing and was looking at him with hope in his bright green eyes. "Alfred sensed you the second you arrived in the building. The nurse will take you back to him." He nodded to a tiny nurse with short brown hair standing off to the side.

"I wanna go too, papa!"

"Not yet, Mikhail."

England followed the nurse back to the room but hesitated outside the door. Once he was sure he had a grip on his emotions and wouldn't start yelling at the American for sending him away, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Blue eyes instantly rose to meet green.

"Hey," America greeted. "Wanna come say hello?"

England's gaze dropped to the bundle of pink in his lover's arms.

_A girl. I have a daughter. Oh god, I'm a father._

England slowly made his way over to America without once taking his eyes off of his baby girl. He sat down on the side of the bed, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch her. To make sure she was real.

He'd thought for sure he'd be cursed with another boy. Another boy who would grow up to hate him and eventually leave.

"She's beautiful," England whispered.

America beamed. "She is! And look, she has my hair! Though the doctor said it'll probably change as she gets older."

England looked a little more closely and saw what America meant. Her pale blonde hair was wavy rather than straight like his own. (Which was probably a good thing. He wouldn't wish his crazy hair on anyone.) "Have you named her?"

America shook his head. "Not yet. I was waiting for you. Though I did think of a few names."

Praying that it had nothing to do with food, England asked: "What are they?"

"Avalon."

A shiver ran down England's spine. "Avalon?" He repeated. "Where did you come up with that name?"

America blushed. "From those books you like. And I figured that since the human name you use is Arthur it'd kind of make sense. I didn't wanna name her Guinevere or Morgana though. I don't like those name. Avalon sounds cooler. And it starts with an 'A', just like our names!"

_Arthur, Alfred, and Avalon._

"I like it," England said. "What about her middle name?"

America shrugged. "I dunno. That was the only one I really liked. You pick a middle name."

England took a moment to study his daughter while going over a list of names in his mind. Unbidden, an image of his mother, the powerful Britannia passed before him. "Siofra," he whispered. "Avalon Siofra."

"Sounds kind of weird," America remarked.

"It was the name my mum used."

"Knock, knock, boys!" The nurse from before bustled into the room with a clipboard and a bright smile on her face. "Now that you're both here, we can pick out a name for this beautiful little girl! So, any ideas?"

"Avalon Siofra," America spoke up. "Those're her first and middle names."

England looked over at him, startled but pleased. He'd thought for sure they'd end up fighting over her name for at least the rest of the day. Maybe America was feeling tired after everything he'd been through.

"And last name?" asked the nurse.

"Kirkland."

"Jones."

The nurse stifled a giggle when the two glared at one another.

"Avalon Kirkland sounds much better than Avalon Jones," England began the argument.

"Nuh uh! Just look at her! She's a Jones!"

"Kirkland."

"Jones!"

"Um," said the nurse. "How about Kirkland-Jones, with a hyphen between the two."

For a moment, the two were quiet. Then America opened his mouth.

"Why not 'Jones-Kirkland'?"

The argument continued for some time after that.

.

* * *

.

"Look, Mikhail," Canada said, holding his son up to the glass. "See that little girl right there? That's your baby cousin."

Mikhail looked awed by the sight of her. "She's so little~! When she gets bigger, I can play with her,  _da_?"

Canada nodded. "Of course. But that will take a while."

Mikhail hummed as he stared at her. "What's her name, papa?"

"Avalon Siofra Kirkland-Jones. The poor girl," Canada said, unable to keep a grin from forming. "Those two can never agree on anything. I'm pretty sure they're arguing over what toy to give her first right now."

Mikhail giggled. "Uncle America and Uncle England are silly."

"That they are," Canada agreed. "Very silly."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Bonus Chapter_

England stared at the fluffy creature in his lover's arms. "America," he began slowly. "What is that?"

America happily petted the ball of fluff. "It's a bunny! I got him for Avalon."

"You got a rabbit for our  _three month old._ "

"Yup!"

England sighed, knowing there was no talking the blond out of it. "Fine. But you're taking care of it." He hid his smile as he walked away.

He was rather fond of rabbits.

.

* * *

.

Avalon, it seemed, was far too much like her papa. She was quiet. She preferred being read books over watching television. Her hair was always a mess. She saw things that weren't really there.

America sighed as he watched her giggle and clap her hands while staring up into the air. "I don't get it. There's nothing there!"

England glanced up from his book. "What on earth are you going on about now?"

America gestured towards Avalon. "Look! She's giggling like the air is the most fun thing in the world! I hope she doesn't start talking to herself like you do."

England's green eyes widened in delight when he looked over to see what America was talking about. He quickly marked his place in his book, finding the new development in his family much more interesting.

Fairies of various colors fluttered around Avalon, performing acrobatics in the air to keep her entertained. Flying mint bunny was also there, resting on the child's head.

"It seems she's more English than you'd like to believe," England said with pride.

America groaned. "Oh man, this isn't about those fairytale friends of yours, is it?"

"You have an  _alien_  living in your basement," England reminded. "If you can have a being from another planet living in your house, I can have  _fairy_ friends." He sighed. "I don't understand why you can't see them. Even France notices them once I point them out, and he's as impure as can be!"

"You can't see something that doesn't exist."

"Git," England muttered, standing up. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go join Avalon. At least then I can have an intellectual conversation with flying mint bunny."

America's laughter followed him across the room.

.

* * *

.

Mikhail stared at Avalon.

Avalon stared back.

Then, carefully, Mikhail reached out and patted his cousin on the head. When she giggled, he smiled happily and pulled her into a hug.

"I like her," he announced. "She's cute!"

"Cute!" Avalon chirped, repeating what Mikhail said.

Mikhail was more than delighted when she arranged herself in his lap, snuggling up against him. He gently stroked her hair, marveling over how soft it was. At last there was a younger kid who wasn't completely terrified of him. In fact, she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying being near him.

Canada let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as he and his brother retreated to the kitchen to talk in peace.

"So what's up, bro? I know you didn't call me up here just so those two can play," America said as he sat down at the kitchen table. His eyes lit up when he saw the plate of cookies sitting right in front of him and swiped a few.

Canada sat down next to his brother. "I got a call from Romano earlier today. The others are starting to find out whether our kids are like us or not."

America paused in the middle of shoving cookies in his mouth. "Humph?"

"Fiore is Sicily. And he said Spain is pretty confident that Carmen is Barcelona."

"So they're cities?" America asked. "I guess that makes better sense than my idea about mini-countries popping up all over the place. So what city is Mikhail? He's Canadian, right? No way is my nephew gonna be Russian!" He smiled at his brother, expecting to get an amused look in response.

Instead, Canada stared at the table, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes as he sniffled.

"Bro?" America asked, his voice lowering in concern. "You okay?"

"T-there was an attack last night. At one of Russia's airports."

America nodded. He remembered hearing something about that on the news. And though he didn't care much for the larger country, he couldn't help but feel a little worried. "Is that why he isn't here?"

" _Oui…_  He wanted to go take care of it himself. But that's not what I'm worried about. It's Mikhail," said Canada.

America gulped, not sure if he liked how the conversation was going.

"He had a nightmare last night. He came into our room screaming and crying about explosions and blood. It took an hour to calm him down enough that he'd sit still and rest. I don't think any of us got sleep after that." Canada paused to meet America's eyes. "He's Moscow. I've thought so for a while now, but after last night I'm sure."

"Canada…" America reached over and laid his hand over his brother's, offering a comforting smile when the other nation looked up at him. "It'll be okay, bro. He's not gonna forget you."

"I know," murmured Canada. "Thank you."

"That's what heroes are for!"

"Papa~" Mikhail slowly wandered into the kitchen holding the hand of Avalon. "Can you make us pancakes? Пожалуйста?"

America winced at the use of Russian, but Canada smiled wryly and stood up. Being around Russia for nearly six years meant he was familiar enough with the larger country's language to construct sentences of his own when necessary, so a single word was no problem to understand.

"Конечно _,_ " Canada said, making sure to not look at his brother. He wouldn't be able to resist the urge to laugh if he saw the horrified look that was no doubt plastered across the American's face.

Maybe, just maybe, he was alright with Mikhail being Russia's capital.

.

* * *

.

England relished the peaceful moments of the household. Those moments when Avalon was fast asleep or being entertained by the fairies and flying mint bunny. The moments when America stopped talking and snuggled up against him, glasses half sliding down his nose as he read the book in England's hands.

That wasn't to say he disliked the loud and messy times, which were far more frequent. There was nothing more amusing than a giggling, naked Avalon running away from America after a bath before finally getting caught and wrapped up in a fluffy towel. He was even starting to not mind France's visits as much, as the man's attention was quickly taken up by darling Avalon, who loved being dressed up like a doll. (Something France was happy to take part in. England swore the nation had a new dress for her every time he came over.)

England was, dare he say it, happy.

He had his America by his side, willingly devoted to him, sometimes so greatly that he wanted to kick the younger nation out of the house for a few hours so he wouldn't have his constant presence hovering over him. It was maddeningly unhelpful when he was trying to tidy up the house.

He had a daughter who loved him. Who'd never shouted she hated him. Who greeted him enthusiastically when he returned home from trips overseas or (if they were at his home in England) from a day dealing with his Parliament. Who could see the fairies and flying mint bunny who kept him company through his loneliest days.

However, something still wasn't right. Something nagged at the back of his mind during peaceful moments, interrupting his serenity. So while he relished those peaceful moments, he also dreaded them.

It wasn't until a rainy day in his ( _their_ ) England home that he realized what it was.

A frantic knocking came at the front door around noon. At the time, America was chasing Avalon around the house like a madman, trying to get her to put on her pants, leaving England to answer the door as he shouted advice over his shoulder.

"Igirisu-san," a frantic Japan greeted him at the door, unintentionally slipping into his native tongue. In his arms was a child who appeared to be a few years younger than Avalon, with straight dark hair and large amber-brown eyes.

England gave a start, reminded of another Asian child for a brief moment.

"England-san," repeated Japan, regaining control. "Please, I need you to watch Mamoru for a while. Hong Kong-san went missing and I must help China find him."

"Mamoru?"

A tinge of pink spread across Japan's cheeks. "He's my son. Please, England-san, watch over him for me. Just until we find Hong Kong-san."

England could only nod, not wanting to deny Japan a request when he made so few of them. The last thing he wanted was to discourage the quiet nation from going to him when he needed help, especially when it had nothing to do with national affairs. "Yes, of course. We'd be happy to watch after him, Japan. Perhaps his presence will get Avalon to calm down."

Something that may have been a relieved smile appeared on Japan's face as he shifted Mamoru from his arms and into England's. The child awkwardly clung to the Briton's shirt as if afraid he would be dropped, looking back at his dad fearfully when he noticed him setting down his duffle bag and getting ready to leave.

"It will be okay, Mamoru," Japan said softly, patting his son on the head. "This is my friend England. He will watch you while I am away. Be good for him." Clearing his throat, he stepped back. "I am sorry for the inconvenience, England-san. Please call me if he is any trouble."

After promising the shorter nation he would call him at the slightest hint of trouble, England bid his old friend farewell and waited until he was halfway through the front yard before shutting the door.

"So, you're Mamoru," England murmured, looking down at the Asian child.

The boy yawned and leaned his head against the European's shoulder, curling his tiny fingers into his shirt.

England's expression softened at the sight. "Cute little bugger, aren't you? Just like Aubrey…"

"…and the hero wins again!" America exclaimed, appearing in the entryway with a giggling Avalon in his arms. It seemed he had succeeded in his attempts to dress her, since she was wearing a pair of black pants. "Huh? Who's this, England?"

Avalon's eyes went wide at the sight of a child younger than her in her papa's arms. She'd only seen two others who were around her age, though it was only briefly and she hadn't gotten to see them up close.

"It seems he's Japan's son," England said. "Did you know anything about this?"

America shook his head. "I didn't even know Japan was seeing someone! Who d'ya think it is? Greece maybe? I think France said something about those two hanging out a lot. He doesn't really look like Greece though…" He caught sight of a tag on the duffle bag that was left behind and carefully set down Avalon. He snagged her hand before she could run away, eliciting a pout from his darling daughter. "Y'reckon his name's on here?"

"I suppose it's worth checking," England acknowledged. "Though it wouldn't surprise me in the least if Japan put his own name on there."

America squinted at the symbols, mouthing them as he tried to unpuzzle what was written. It took him a few tries to decipher them, but once he did he lost all urge to tell England who the boy's other parent was. "Mamoru's a cool name, yeah? Hey, lets go take his stuff to the spare room or something. Or maybe Avalon's room? They could be best friends! Just like me and Japan!" He beamed at England, who stared back humorlessly.

"What's his name, America?"

"U-um, you're not gonna like this… Maybe you should sit down? Or give Mamoru to me?"

England narrowed his eyes.  _"America._ "

The American flinched. "Mamoru Li…" He paused, glancing down at Avalon, who was looking between them in confusion.

"If the next word out of your mouth is 'Honda', you're on the couch for the next week," England threatened.

"Wang," America blurted out. "Mamoru Li Wang."

England felt as though he'd been sucker punched in the gut.

Mamoru was  _China's_  son.

_China_ had a second son who undoubtedly adored him and wouldn't think of leaving him alone.

_China_ had a family who didn't send him curses on a yearly basis. (England's brothers had begun sending them on his "birthday" as gifts rather than whenever they felt like it. Though surprisingly, they'd become significantly less horrific since Avalon was born.)

It wasn't fair, damn it.

"Papa?" Avalon questioned, tugging on his pants leg. "What's wrong? Why are you sad?"

"I-I'm not," England said quickly, ashamed that his daughter was so astute to his emotions. Were all children that way? He couldn't remember Aubrey ever being like that… Then again, the half-Asian was much more subtle about things than his baby girl.

Avalon huffed and hugged his leg. "You're silly, papa. But I love you anyway."

England couldn't help but smile.

Okay, so China had a second son. So what?  _He_ had a little girl who clearly adored him. A little girl who could see fairies and liked his cooking. And he had America, who hadn't left him alone since the Second World War (which was both a blessing and a curse at times).

He was happy. He couldn't keep dwelling on the past when he had so much to look forward to with his family. With America. With Avalon.

England looked down at Mamoru, thankful that he resembled Japan when he was sleeping.

"England, you okay?" America asked.

The Briton nodded. "Yes. I am." He confidently met his lover's eyes before looking down at Avalon. "Come. Lets go in the sitting room and the two of you can play."

Avalon's face lit up with a smile as she released her papa's leg and tore out of the room.

America groaned softly. "Great. Lemme go make sure she keeps her clothes on while she's getting toys."

Chuckling, England followed his lover.

.

* * *

.

Night fell swiftly with no word from Japan. While England cleaned up from dinner and dessert, America put Avalon and Mamoru to bed and began telling them a story about heroes and damsels in distress and ninja's.

England was drying off one of the plates when he heard a knock at the front door. He carefully set it aside and dried off his hands before walking to the front door. The knocking grew louder before he finally yanked open the door, casting an annoyed look at the fair-haired nation on the other side.

Iceland stared back at him, unbothered by the irritated expression. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight, pulling an inebriated Hong Kong into view. He stumbled when the Asian threw his arms around his neck, weighing him down.

"Hong Kong, let go," he muttered. "No wonder you never drink."

Hong Kong hiccupped and rested his head on Iceland's shoulder. "I didn' drink tha' much."

Iceland sighed. "I know."

England crossed his arms over his chest, having half a mind to shut the door and go back to cleaning dishes. "Why are you here?"

Hong Kong slid his eyes from Iceland to England and then giggled. "Daddy!" He shouted, releasing his Nordic friend so he could stumble forward and hug his father instead.

"That's why," Iceland deadpanned. "I'll get him in the morning. Don't tell China."

Though not telling China wasn't going to be a problem, leaving Hong Kong in his house for the night was, especially considering the Asian could barely stand up on his own. Before England could pass the seaport back to Iceland, the blue-eyed country turned and quickly walked away without another word.

England stood in the entryway with Hong Kong clinging to him, smelling strongly of alcohol, and wondered how he ended up in such weird situations.

In the end, all he could do was sigh heavily and escort his son to the spare bedroom, where he could hopefully leave the boy and not have to deal with him again until the morning.

"Dad?"

England flinched. He'd barely taken two steps from the bed when he heard the whisper. The tone carried an air of familiarity to it that he could easily hear the next few words echo in his mind.

" _Tell me a story?"_

"Not tonight, Aubrey," he whispered to himself.

"Dad?" The call came again, more insistent. "I…" Golden eyes closed as Hong Kong turned his head towards the opposite wall. "I'm sorry."

Funny, how two little words could convey so much meaning. Though it wasn't so much the words themselves as it was the inflection of his voice, which had become so static over the past few years that it bore close to no likeness to the joyful tones of his youth.

"Get some rest, Aubrey," England said softly. "We can talk in the morning if you'd like."

As he left the room and turned out the lights, England heard one final whisper from his first child.

"我爱你."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bonus Chapter 2:  _Discussion_

Just as he promised, Iceland arrived around eight o'clock the morning after he dropped Hong Kong off at England's house. America answered the door with Avalon and Mamoru by his side.

"Hong Kong's not awake yet," America said, stepping back to let the other nation inside. "England wants to talk to him before he leaves. I think he's making tea right now."

Iceland nodded in understanding as he walked inside. The second he was in the house, Mamoru toddled forward and latched onto his pants. Iceland's expression softened as he bent down and picked up the young Asian. Mamoru smiled and snuggled against him.

"Does China know?" Iceland asked.

America shrugged. "No clue. Japan dropped off Mamoru last night and England made me promise to not tell anyone about Hong Kong. Guess I can understand why… Hey, you want some food? Don't worry, it's not England's cooking."

Though he had a feeling America's cooking wasn't much better. Iceland agreed and joined him in the kitchen for a snack.

.

* * *

.

England closed the door of the spare bedroom just loudly enough to alert Hong Kong to his presence. In one hand was a cup of tea, steam curling into the air enticingly.

Hong Kong blearily looked at the European nation, wincing from the slight sunlight filtering through the curtains. He carefully sat up, nearly giving in and laying back down when a splitting pain in his head overcame him.

"I don't suppose I need to lecture you about drinking," England said, walking over to the bed. He wordlessly held out the cup of tea, daring Hong Kong to turn it away.

The seaport rearranged the pillows so he could prop himself against the headboard. Then he accepted the tea.

"In case you've forgotten, Iceland dropped you off here last night. I believe he's in the kitchen with America right now," England explained.

Hong Kong silently stared into the coffee cup.

England frowned. "Your disappearance has China worried. He and Japan have been searching for you all night. They left Mamoru here for us to watch after him. Or rather,  _Japan_  left him here. I doubt China knows." He paused to give his son a chance to speak. "Hong Kong, are you listening to me?"

"I am," Hong Kong said hoarsely. "…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry mum."

England sat down on the edge of the bed, taking care not to jostle Hong Kong. "To be honest, I was a little worried too. It's not like you to leave without telling anyone."

"I just wanted some time alone."

"So you went drinking with Iceland and gave no warning to China that you were leaving," England said rather dryly. "Though I disagree with how quickly he panicked, I think you should have at least left a note or called him."

Hong Kong cast him an annoyed look. "I'm not your little colony anymore. You can't tell me what to do."

"That may be true, but I'm still your father."

Hong Kong rolled his eyes and looked away. "You stopped being my father back in nineteen-ninety-seven when you handed me back to China. It's too late to play the 'upset parent' card."

"What choice did I have? My deal with China expired and, as I recall, you were quite eager to return to him," England said bitterly. "I wasn't about to keep you against your will."

"You never asked."

"Pardon?"

Hong Kong looked back at his father with an unreadable emotion in his narrowed amber eyes. "You never asked me to stay."

"Would it have made a difference?" England asked. "You told me you wanted to leave. No, that you  _were_  leaving in a way that made it clear that I had no choice in the matter. So tell me, had I asked, would you have stayed?"

Hong Kong was silent for a long moment. Then, he slowly exhaled and shifted the cup of tea in his hands. "No."

England's temper flared as he abruptly stood and leveled a burning glare at his son. "I can see there's no point in speaking of this further. Drink your tea and get out."

Hong Kong looked startled. "W-wait!"

England ignored him, quickly leaving the room before he could completely lose his cool and start yelling.

Hong Kong struggled with the blankets. Burning tea sloshed over the sides of the cup, dribbling down his arm. He flinched, spilling more of it, until he at last broke free of his blanket prison and stumbled from the bed, fighting back the pain exploding in his head like the firecrackers he played with during his younger days.

The tea cup crashed to the floor, chipping as a crack splintered through the hand-painted flower outlined in red. Amber liquid splashed across the rug, some flowing onto the hardwood floor as the cup tilted and rolled to a stop.

Hong Kong tripped over his feet as he hurried from the room, wanting-needing-his father to understand the truth. To listen to the truth.

"Dad…!" His voice was strained as he clung to the doorframe, unable to take another step. He could see Iceland hovering near the exit to the kitchen, frowning as America shouted something in a panicked tone. Mamoru was in the blond's arms, staring into the kitchen with wide eyes. A girl with light blonde hair danced around them, giggling to herself.

Then England was there in front of him, the emotions in his eyes morphing from anger to concern within seconds.

"Hong Kong-"

The Asian reached out and gripped his father's shoulder, partly to steady himself and partly to get his attention. "I wanted to, but I couldn't. I wasn't going to be the reason you went to war with mum again."

"You… you wanted to stay?" England asked, his voice a shocked whisper. "Why didn't you say so?"

Hong Kong withdrew his hand. "I couldn't. There was nothing you could have done." Gathering what strength he had, he moved past England and nodded to Iceland. He instantly regretted the action and almost retreated back to the bedroom to curl up under the blankets and sleep.

Iceland carefully directed the girl towards America before leaving the kitchen and walking to Hong Kong's side. He offered his silent support as they walked to the front door.

"Hong Kong!" England came to his senses when he heard the front door open. He hurried over so he could see his son before he left. "I-!" He clenched his fists and struggled to compose himself. "I suppose you can come by and visit when you'd like. Or if you need a break from China."

Hong Kong looked back at him blankly for a moment. Then he smiled softly, turned, and left.

.


	6. Beginning (RussiaCanada)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia takes an interest in Canada and his hair curl and decides he must have the smaller nation. Too bad the only thing he can think of to say is a piece of advice from France's radio show.

Violet eyes narrowed a fraction as a quiet blond entered the meeting room, his brilliant blue eyes cast to the floor. A long, looping curl stuck out from the rest of his hair,  _begging_ to be touched. The brown suit he wore only increased his likeness to the American who continued to talk about heroes and food and saving the world.

The boy stammered out an apology that no one else seemed to hear before moving with a ghostlike grace to take his usual seat. No other nation so much as glanced at him.

Russia didn't understand it. That shy  _(adorable)_  boy was the second-largest country in the world. He was so strong when he wanted to be. (Proven in the hockey matches he'd played against the other nation. Not to mention the wars the Canadian had fought in.)

He could admit to forgetting about the nation just like everyone else, but never when he was actually around. Russia sat on the blond once. He'd wanted to see how the country would react. The whimpers and weak protests both pleased him and made him sad, a combination of emotions he wasn't at all used to.

Russia had a plan.

He'd been watching Canada for several months, waiting for the opportune moment to put his plan into action. He felt for sure that his moment had finally come. All he had to do was get Canada away from France, America, and England.

Watching the other countries bicker amongst themselves and ignore Canada every time he tried to speak, Russia figured getting him away from them wouldn't be very difficult.

And he was right.

* * *

The meeting ended with nothing accomplished and most of the nations heading out to various food places in the area. Only Canada and Russia lagged behind, one of them uninvited to any after-meeting dinner and the other having an interest in only one thing.

Fed up with waiting for Canada to gather his papers, Russia left the room before him and stopped a few paces away from the door. It was then that he saw an obstacle to his goal.

Prussia.

Thinking quickly, he met the ex-nation's red eyes and tilted his head slightly. "Hmm? Didn't Canada already leave? Unless you're here to become one with Russia again." He giggled and clapped his hands together gleefully, pleased by how Prussia paled and took a step back.

"Bastard," growled the albino. He kicked the wall in frustration and then turned and walked away, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Russia smiled when he vanished around the corner. He'd successfully rid himself of the obstacle. And if anyone else came back for a lost item, the chances were that they wouldn't even notice Canada.

A minute or so later, Canada finally emerged from the conference room. All of his papers were finally arranged neatly in his briefcase after America had accidentally scattered them across the floor during their lunch break. He stopped walking when he didn't see Prussia standing in the hall waiting for him like usual. With a sigh, he cast his eyes to the floor and began walking once again.

Russia took that opportunity to swoop in and pin the North American country against the opposite wall.

Canada squeaked in surprise, blue eyes darting up to see who his attacker was. "R-Russia!"

Struck by how very blue the Canadians eyes were at a close distance, Russia found himself tongue tied for a moment. Some part of his mind latched on to a friendly suggestion given to him years ago via France's radio show, and though he'd tried to erase his mind of the question, he found himself asking it at that very moment.

"Would you like to bare my child?"

He was fairly certain Canada stopped breathing.

He tried to think of something better to say.  _Anything._  But nothing seemed appropriate after that question.

Just as Russia was about to walk away and try to come up with a new plan, that curl of hair caught his attention. It was right there, dangling in front of his face. Taunting him.

He wasn't really sure what the point of the curls were. He'd watched Canada slap France's hands away from it on more than one occasion. He'd seen Romano leap across the table in an attempt to strangle Germany whenever the blond tugged on Italy's curl to get him to stop talking about pasta. He'd seen Spain then twirl his finger through Romano's curl, which only resulted in the Italian turning a shade of bright red and turning his ire on the Spaniard instead.

He'd never had a country with a hair curl. (He would have, had Japan not beaten him away from Korea.) Naturally, he was curious about what the point of it was.

At first, he gently ran one finger across it, noting with some interest the startled squeak Canada gave. Getting a little braver, he pinned it between his thumb and index finger and gently rubbed it. Glancing at Canada's face, he couldn't help feel amused as a shade of red spread cutely across the blonde's cheeks and nose.

Russia released the curl for a moment, wondering what else he could do with it to elicit more of those delectable sounds from the Canadian.

"Y-you," Canada stammered, seemingly free of his previous immobile state. He looked down at the floor for a moment and breathed in shakily, slowly releasing his breath after a few seconds. When he looked back up, he fearlessly met Russia's amethyst colored eyes. "Fucking tease!"

Without warning the smaller nation grasped Russia's scarf and yanked him down, crashing their lips together.

The kiss only lasted a few brief seconds before Canada released him by shoving him away. "Don't touch my hair again," he warned as he walked away.

Russia stared after him, running his finger over his lips, already missing the sensation of being close to Canada.

He would be ignoring that warning.


	7. Lumimyrsky (SwedenFinland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nordics have a little get-together, during which Denmark makes fun of Sweden and Finland's makeshift family. Too bad for him, the pair has some interesting news.

"Now  _this_  is a get-together!" Denmark loudly proclaimed, dropping his weight onto one of the kitchen chairs. He plunked his mug of beer on the table, uncaring how most of the liquid sloshed over the sides. "If we were able to drink at those damn meetings, we'd get a hell of a lot more done!"

Norway rolled his eyes and flicked a damp rag into Denmark's face. "You already do that, idiot."

Across the table, Iceland smirked at the pair. He had his own mug of beer, but was being more careful with it than the loudmouth on the other side of the table. He preferred taking his time.

Next to him was Sweden, who hadn't taken more than a few sips of his own drink. He was busy quietly watching Denmark and Norway while awaiting the return of his beloved "wife".

Denmark peeled the wet cloth from his face and dropped it to the floor, casting an annoyed look in Norway's direction. It didn't last long. All too quickly, his focus was on Sweden and there was a massive smirk on his face. "So,  _Sverige_ , you got a wife, a dog, and a kid now. One big happy family."

Norway automatically shifted over one chair closer to Iceland. He wasn't going to get in Sweden's way when the tall man finally snapped and attacked Denmark for his stupidity. As much patience as the Swede had for Finland and Sealand, he had absolutely zero for the Danish man.

Sweden's expression didn't change as he met Denmark's gaze. "Wh't's y' point?"

"Oh, nothing~" Denmark's grin grew wider. "I hear the other nations are having kids of their own. Sooner or later, Finland's gonna want one too. Watcha gonna do then?"

"Whether or not they want a second kid, it's none of your business, Denmark," spoke up Norway. "Leave them alone."

Despite the warning, the Dane continued with his favorite game of provoking Sweden. "Hey, I just wanna know if I'm gonna be an uncle soon! I can see it already; a bunch of scary-lookin' kids running around the house, tormenting the dog and trackin' mud everywhere."

"That would be  _your_ spawn," Iceland remarked.

"Hey! Any kids I have are gonna be beautiful!" Denmark protested. "Just like Norway."

The Norwegian shot him an icy glare which had him freezing up long enough for Finland to enter the room with no chance to overhear what they were talking about.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, worried about how quiet it was. Sure, it was rare for Sweden, Norway, or Iceland to say much, but with Denmark around that was hardly a problem. Finland was sure the Dane could carry on a conversation with himself if he wanted.

"Ev'ryth'ng's f'ne," Sweden said. "D'nm'rk's just bein' stup'd."

"Am not!"

"Shut up," Norway said monotonously. He slid his drink down to Denmark, pleased when the spiky-haired nation picked it up and began drinking. At least they would have a few seconds of him not talking.

Finland cheerfully took a seat between Denmark and Sweden. "Oh! Did you guys get hit by that blizzard a few weeks ago?" He asked. "Me and Sweden did! We were out at one of our old villas when it started snowing. We got stuck there for a few days, right Sweden?"

"S'right."

The devilish gleam returned to Denmark's blue eyes as Norway got up and walked to the refrigerator.

"So-"

"Beer, Finland?" Norway loudly interrupted., holding a bottle out towards the smaller country.

"No thanks," Finland said after a moment of hesitation. "I'll just get some water."

"Nonsense! Get 'im a beer,  _Norge!_ " Denmark said, slamming his mug on the table. "Tonight's the night I out-drink Finland!"

Norway looked between the two for a moment, his usual blank expression firmly in place. Then he turned back to the refrigerator and grabbed three more beers and a bottle of water. Once he sat down, he kept one drink for himself, handed one to Iceland, roughly slid one down to Denmark (who caught it as it tipped off the edge of the table), and gave the last beer and a bottle of water to Finland.

Sweden easily took the beer from his "wife" and placed it beside his mug, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the others.

"Killjoy," Denmark said, making no effort to be subtle as he glared at the tallest of the Nordic countries. "If Finland wants to drink, let him! He promised me a drinking competition!"

Finland rested his hand on Sweden's arm when he felt his husband begin to stand up. "I don't want to drink," he said. "I mean, I can't. I-" He sighed and looked up at Sweden. "You didn't tell them?"

"N'rway int'rupt'd me," Sweden replied.

"Tell us what?" Denmark asked, looking between the two. "Did he get alcohol poisoning or somethin'? Is that even possible?"

"Moron," muttered Norway.

"F'nl'nd's havin' a b'by."

Denmark gaped at the couple. Norway didn't react to the news other than to take a swig of beer. Iceland smirked.

"What? But I was just kidding!" Denmark blurted out. "You two're really havin' a kid? I'm gonna be an uncle? When did this happen? How far along are you?"

A hue of pink covered Finland's face as he shyly avoided the gazes of his friends. "J-just a few weeks."

Denmark slammed his hands on the table and stood up, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement. "We need to celebrate! Lets go to a pub! No, wait, that's probably not a good idea…. Lets get ice cream!" He paused a moment, his elation deflating slightly when no one else agreed. "No? Okay. Oh!" He looked at Norway, who stared back, unimpressed. "Nor! Lets go shopping! We can buy stuff! Yes!" He pumped a fist in the air and then dashed out of the kitchen, miraculously not stumbling over anything.

He returned seconds later, a set of keys jingling merrily in his hand as he tugged on his coat. He stopped when he saw Norway still sitting at the table. "Norway, get up! Aren't we going out?"

"No."

"Nonsense!"

Whirlwind Denmark clomped over to the smaller country and easily pulled him out of the chair. Before Norway could utter a word of complaint, he found himself tossed over the Dane's shoulder and heading for the back door to go out into the frosty night. He grasped onto the doorway, halting their progress for a few seconds.

"Put me down," he grumbled irately.

"Aww c'mon, Nor! Let go of the door!"

"It's cold."

"We can use body heat to keep warm."

Norway punched Denmark's ass.

Unfortunately, that weakened his grasp on the door-frame and allowed the Dane to lug him out into the cold.

Iceland finished the last sip of his beer and then set his mug down. He calmly straightened the cuffs of his jacket while listening to his brother's frustrated remarks as Denmark refused to go back in the house. "Sounds like you two had more fun with the snowstorm than we did."

Finland blushed. "W-well, um… yes. We had a snowball fight once it stopped snowing for a while."

Sweden nodded. "F'nl'nd won."

Iceland stopped fixing the cuffs of his jacket and stood up. "Norway and I stared at the fire. Denmark complained."

Finland wasn't sure what to say after that. So instead, he and Sweden watched the Icelandic man gather up the abandoned mugs and drop them unceremoniously in the sink before trailing after his brother and Denmark, remembering to shut the door behind him.

"Maybe we should move to one of  _our_ houses once the baby's born," Finland suggested.

"Yeah."


	8. A Reminder of the Past (GermanyItaly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While giving his son a bath, Italy makes a realization that has him questioning everything. Is Holy Rome really gone? And if he isn't, does that change how he feels about Germany?

Prussia's exact words upon finding out his brother and Italy were having a third child were: "Damn it, West, learn to say  _no_!"

That being said, he'd never been happier than the first time he held his nephew. Gazing down at the tiny boy and seeing tufts of blond hair and brief hints of bright blue eyes, he felt hope return to his heart.

"We named him Friedrich," Germany said.

Prussia sat down on the nearest available surface, carefully cradling the baby boy in his arms. "Friedrich," he breathed, tears prickling at his eyes. " _Mein gott…_  West, I…" He lowered his head, turning slightly so his little brother couldn't see him crying tears of happiness. "Thanks."

Germany awkwardly patted Prussia on the back. "You're not upset?"

"Course not!" Barked the ex-nation. "Y'named him after ol' Fritz, my favorite leader. Guess I raised y'right, West." He rubbed his eyes with one hand and then shyly reached down to tickle Friedrich's belly. "Hey, kiddo. I'm your awesome Onkel Prussia. I'm gonna make sure my Bruder doesn't suck all the awesome from you."

Friedrich babbled happily, looking up at Prussia with blue eyes.

"Ve~ He likes you!" Italy said happily as he walked into the room.

Dafne shyly peeked out from behind her mama's legs, her amber eyes drawn to her new little brother. Sofia was fast asleep in Italy's arms, her brown hair neatly braided back.

"Mamma," Dafne said, tugging on Italy's pants. "Is that my brother?"

" _Si_! Do you want to meet him?" Italy asked.

"Ve~  _Si!_ " Dafne happily ran over to her uncle and stood on tiptoes for a better look. "He looks so cute! Like Vater!"

Germany turned pink at being called cute by his oldest daughter.

Italy giggled. "He does! I think he'll grow up to be big and strong too! But until then, he needs you to protect him, Dafne."

"Just like Sofia?"

"Yup!"

Dafne happily looked at her baby brother for a few minutes before she got bored and wandered off in search of a toy to play with.

Prussia continued to stare at Friedrich in awe. As his brother and Italy began to fuss over a crying Sofia, he whispered a vow to his nephew.

"I'm gonna watch over you, kiddo. If you ever need something, I'll be there to help you in whatever way I can. And when you get older, I'll make sure West doesn't overwhelm you with serious things. You and me can go out and have some fun. Though if you end up being just like him, I'll have to teach you to lighten up. It's not right to be so serious." He looked up in time to see Italy handing Sofia to Germany so he could make funny faces for her enjoyment. The smile on his brother's face, even if it was an awkward one, brought a deep sense of pride.

"Then again, it wouldn't be so bad if you end up being just like him," Prussia whispered.

.

* * *

.

Italy happily deposited a giggling, muddy Friedrich into the bubble-filled bathtub. After spending the entire day at the park, he counted himself lucky that his son was the only one really in need of a bath. Dafne and Sofia were a bit sandy, one from leaping off swings and the jungle gym and the other from playing in the sandbox.

Friedrich, on the other hand, ran around during their stay and happened to come across the only mud puddle in the park and promptly sat down to play in it. That was only after he tried to climb a tree to catch a bird, crawled though bushes after a cat, and accidentally ruined Sofia's sandcastle.

"Ve~ Did you have fun today?" Italy asked.

Friedrich nodded enthusiastically. " _Ja_ , mamma!"

Italy smiled as he picked up a plastic cup and dunked it into the water. With his other hand, he reached for a dry washcloth. "Close your eyes," he warned as he lifted the cup.

Friedrich obliged, screwing his eyes shut as his mamma emptied the water over his head once, then twice, and then a third time to get his hair properly wet.

"Ve~ Shampoo now," Italy said, first leaning forward to blot the water from his son's face. He paused for a moment after he withdrew his hand, frozen in place by the bright blue eyes of his son. With his hair lying flat rather than sticking up in whatever direction it desired, he really did resemble Germany as greatly as everyone said.

But there was something else.

He'd always admired Germany's eyes. They were so clear, so blue, like the crystal clear shores of a picturesque beach. But despite their clarity, they seemed dull at times. Dulled by the horrors and trails he'd withstood. Burdened with the duties of a nation. But how they shone for him and their children, lighting up in joy when Dafne presented one of her works of art; when Sofia completed a puzzle meant for children twice her age; when Friedrich stubbornly persisted in training just as hard as his siblings.

Friedrich's eyes were a blue untouched by the harshness of the world. They were like a cloudless sky after days of rain-a dazzling shade of warm blue, a welcome relief from gray clouds. They glistened with childish joy, darkened slightly when he was uncertain, and lightened when he was sad. So full of emotion.

So  _familiar_.

"Mamma?" Friedrich asked. "You 'kay?"

"Ve~" Italy nodded quickly and reached back for the shampoo. He squeezed a little into his hands and then leaned forward so he could properly wash Friedrich's hair. Nimble fingers gently massaged in the soapy substance, for once not using it to tease his son's hair into spikes. As bath time continued with Italy gently rinsing out Friedrich's hair, there was none of the usual giggling and playfulness.

Fortunately, Friedrich was too tired from the day's adventures to complain and was half asleep by the time Italy lifted him out of the tub and dried him off. He was quickly dressed in his nightclothes and whisked away to bed, lovingly tucked in by his unusually quiet mamma.

"Love you, mamma," Friedrich whispered as sleep fully overtook him.

Italy kissed his forehead. " _Ti amo, piccola mia."_

_.  
_

 

* * *

_.  
_

 

After a long day of explaining to his boss why it wasn't a good idea to send Prussia to a diplomatic meeting with France (or any other country, for that matter), Germany tiredly returned home, hoping for a peaceful evening with his family. He thought he'd gotten his wish when he stepped into the house and didn't hear any crying, but the lack of tiny footsteps racing towards him hinted that things weren't completely right.

Even worse, there was no water merrily bubbling away on the stove in preparation for a dinner consisting of pasta. There was nothing.

"Italy?"

Germany walked through the house in search of his little lover, hoping nothing serious had happened. He found the Italian sitting sullenly on the couch, staring down at his lap.

"Italy?" He repeated, walking over to him.

The brunet glanced up, his amber eyes troubled as they met Germany's clear blue. "Germany… I, um, I'm sorry. I should make dinner, right? A-and clean up. You can sit and relax and I'll-  _Oomph!"_ He tripped over a cardboard box as he stood to rush away, landing hard on the carpeted floor.

Germany dashed forward and dropped to his knees beside him, helping his love sit up. Worry gripped his heart when he spotted the first signs of tears spilling freely down Italy's cheeks. He reached out to wipe them away, but was stopped by a shake of the head.

"Italy, what's wrong?"

"I-I want to try something," Italy said, avoiding answering the question. He pulled the box closer. "Close your eyes. Just for a minute."

Germany hesitated, wanting nothing more than to pull Italy into his arms and hold him tight and wipe away his tears. However, if going along with what his love wanted to do would make him happy, he was willing to do that as well. Had it been anyone else making the request, he wouldn't have even considered closing his eyes, but it was his Italy asking-his wonderful, beautiful Italy who he trusted more than anyone else in the world-and so he obliged.

The second his eyes were closed, he heard Italy pull the box even closer and open it up, the cardboard tabs sliding against one another as they were tugged free. There was rustling from some sort of cloth before he felt something slide onto his head-a hat, most likely. Italy adjusted it to his liking before taking something else out of the box, draping it over his shoulders like a cape, tugging it into place and then smoothing it out with his hands.

"O-okay. All done," Italy said, his voice still lacking his usual cheer.

Germany opened his eyes and immediately looked down to see that he was, in fact, wearing what appeared to be a black cape with a high collar. He raised his eyes to Italy, who stared back with an unreadable expression.

"What-"

The front door slammed open, followed by a loud greeting from Prussia, interrupting Germany. He sighed, knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before his older brother found them.

"Hey, West, what's this about telling the boss not to send me to Fran-" He abruptly stopped when he saw the two of them, his red eyes going wide in shock. He gulped, looking back and forth between the two of them, looking increasingly nervous.

Germany narrowed his eyes.  _What is going on?_

Italy frowned when he saw Prussia's reaction. "So it's true…"

"W-what's true?" Prussia stammered. He gave a shaky laugh as he took a step forward, almost as if he wanted to walk over and join them on the floor but thought better of it. "What's with the get-up, West? It's not Halloween yet."

"It was Italy's idea," Germany said.

"Yeah, should've guessed that." Prussia sounded almost annoyed. No, scared? But of what?

"You lied to me…" Italy whispered.

"Ita-"

"You lied to me!" His voice rose to a shout as he glared at the Prussian.

A shiver went down Germany's spine. He'd never seen Italy angry before. It was something he'd once hoped for, back during the Second World War, because he thought that it'd be the only way to get Italy to fight properly. But as he watched the Italian stand up, his amber eyes flooded with anger, he felt afraid.

Afraid of losing his lazy, lovable Italy. The Italy who greeted him with hugs and kisses and joyfully played games with their children. The Italy who grew sad when they couldn't have pasta for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The Italy who cried when he was hurt. The Italy who never outright refused taking part in training exercises, but did them so poorly that he might as well roll around in the grass and play with cats all day.

"You and France and Mister Austria, you all lied to me."

Prussia shook his head. "We didn't! Italy, we didn't lie-"

" _You told me he was dead!"_

Germany's eyes went wide.  _Dead…?_

Prussia was done defending himself, moving in to attack instead. "Because he  _is_ dead! He died a long time ago, Italy! Hol-"

"Don't!" Italy warned.

Red eyes narrowed in anger at being told what to do. "Holy Rome is dead, Italy! He has been for years!"

"No!"

Prussia stormed forward and grasped Italy by the shoulders, ignoring his brother as he continued to sit on the floor and watch them in stunned silence. He forced Italy to look him in the eyes, taking some pleasure in the fear that blossomed across the brunet's face. " _Listen_  to me. Holy Roman Empire is dead. France dealt the final blow hundreds of years ago. I was there. You think it was easy watching my little brother die? Be lucky you weren't there to see it."

"But Germ-"

"Is not him," Prussia interrupted. "Not anymore."

Italy's anger began to dissipate, replaced by confusion. "What do you mean? Not anymore? What does that mean?" He gripped Prussia's shirt, looking at him pleadingly. "Please! No one told me. Everyone said I was too young to understand. Am I still too young?"

Prussia glanced down at Germany, who looked too shocked to move. "You know, I always thought I'd have to explain this to West rather than you or anyone else." He sighed heavily, releasing Italy. "Look, Holy Roman Empire really is gone. When everything fell apart, when he lost everything, he forgot everything. Wiped clean. He couldn't remember himself or anyone else. He couldn't remember me. He couldn't remember you. I had to raise him all by myself, no help from old man Germania that time. Heh, he turned out alright, I'd say." He grinned down at Germany.

"So, Germany is-"

"Was," corrected Prussia.

" _Was_ , Holy Rome?" Italy asked. "I was right?"

Prussia nodded. "Yeah. Hey, c'mon. I wanna talk to you for a bit. And West needs some time to process all of this."

Italy obediently followed Prussia into the kitchen, leaving Germany alone with his thoughts, still wearing the hat and cape.

As low murmurs broke out in the kitchen, the blond slowly pulled off the articles of clothing, giving them a once-over before depositing them in the box. His brain worked overtime to piece together what had just transpired, mixed with details Italy had mentioned of his past over the years they'd been together.

He'd heard of the Holy Roman Empire before, of course. He also knew he'd been alive during that period of time, though he remembered nothing about it. No one would tell him about that period of time the few times he asked, so he eventually let the subject drop, casting it to the back of his mind in favor of looking towards the future.

If what Prussia and Italy said was true, if he really was the one who used to be the Holy Roman Empire, then what did that mean? Who was he supposed to be? Was he Holy Rome or Germany?

He closed his eyes, thinking back to his earliest memory. What was it? After so many years it was easy to forget what went on during his youth. Was it Prussia teaching him to fight? Listening to one of Austria's many lectures on the importance of cleanliness? Or maybe it was fighting with France?

No, it wasn't any of those.

_Think._

A memory. A battlefield. Prussia standing over him with worry reflected clearly in his red eyes. His clothing soaked with blood. Low murmurs from defeated soldiers. His mind blank. Unable to understand what was going on or where he was at. Prussia barking orders at someone before picking him up and taking him away from that horrible place. Taking him to Berlin, where he slowly recovered. Where he slowly became a new person, a new country.

_Deutsches Reich._

_Großdeutsches Reich._

_Bundesrepulik Deutschland._

He was Germany. His time as Holy Rome had passed and perhaps it was for the best that he didn't remember that time.

The question was, how did Italy feel since learning who he used to be? Would Italy still see him as him? Or would he see him as a fragment of the past?

Germany stood up and looked to the kitchen where Italy and Prussia were still quietly conversing. He stood there for a moment and then decided to join them. He had some questions that needed answers.

The second he set foot in the kitchen, he found himself bombarded by a clingy, sobbing Italian, who quickly attached himself to his clean white shirt. His arms automatically wound around his love, pulling him as close as possible to offer comfort. As Italy's unintelligible murmurs washed over him, Germany noticed that Prussia was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed. It seemed he would have to put an end to Italy's crying before he got any answers.

"Italy.  _Republica Italiana!"_

Italy went rigid in his arms, hiccuping once as he pulled back to stare at Germany with wide eyes.

"Who am I?"

"Who?" Italy repeated, sounding confused. "You're Germany."

Germany shook his head. "No.  _Who_  am I?"

Italy fidgeted and looked down at his hands. "You're…you."

Germany patiently waited for him to continue.

"You're the one who helps me tie my shoes," Italy shakily continued. "You keep me from eating pasta all the time and make me do other things I don't want to do. Like in bed the other ni-"

" _Italy,"_ Germany growled in warning.

The brunet finally met his eyes with a cheeky smile. "You make sure I clean up my messes and take care of me when I'm sick. Sometimes you push me too much in training, but that's okay because I know you just want me to stay healthy but sometimes I skip out on it anyway to go eat gelato. You frown too much, but you've been smiling a lot more now and that makes me happy." He paused a moment before continuing. "You're the father of three kids.  _Our_ kids. And you're a younger brother, just like me!" He smiled brightly, though it soon dimmed as something a little more serious spilled from his lips. "You used to be Holy Rome…but that's not who you are now and I'm glad."

"You're glad?" Germany asked, confused.

Italy nodded. "He was my first love, but I was always so scared for him. He wanted to be like Grandpa Rome, but that's not what I wanted. I didn't want him to get too big and get hurt, but that's what happened… Now you're you and I know you idolize Grandpa Rome, but you don't want to be like him anymore and that makes me happy!" His cheer returned. "I like you as you are right now. As  _Bundesrepublik Deutschland_." He stumbled over the official title, though not as badly as he had the first few times he tried to pronounce it.

An image flashed in Germany's mind. A young girl in a green dress and an apron, with short brown hair. No, not a young girl. A young Italy.

The image faded quickly and no more followed it.

He didn't need to think about what he needed to do next. Germany stepped forward and wrapped Italy back up in his arms, kissing the top of his head.  _"Ich liebe dich, Italien."_

_.  
_

 

* * *

_.  
_

 

When he first heard the news, the first thing Prussia did was steal Germany's favorite car and drive to Canada. Yes,  _drive_. It seemed that in times of great want it was possible for a nation to skip entire countries-or oceans-to get to wherever they wanted to be. Italy had certainly done it enough, driving Japan home from meetings in Europe.

Okay, so maybe he'd gone to his room and cried tears of happiness, reminded himself that he was awesome and that awesome didn't cry,  _then_ stole Germany's car and drove to Canada.

"Canada, you'll never guess-!" He stopped short after bursting through the kitchen door, unnerved by the number of violet-tinted eyes cast in his direction. Except for Canada's, which were a deep, warm blue as always.

The Canadian stood up, smiling at him warmly. " _Bonjour,_ Prussia. Want some food?"

" _J-ja_." Prussia fidgeted as three pairs of violet eyes continued staring at him. As if Russia's creepy smile wasn't bad enough, little Mikhail seemed almost annoyed to see him. (Which may or may not have been because he accidentally ate the boy's pancakes the last time he was over.) And hell if he could tell what Iceland was thinking. Speaking of which… "Why's Iceland here?"

"Eh?" Canada seemed confused by the question as he walked over to the stove to flip a pancake. "Oh, he's my older brother. Didn't you know?"

Iceland pinked slightly. "Don't call me that, Vinland."

Canada rolled his eyes at the old name. "I'm Canada. Ca-na-da."

"And I'm Iceland."

Apparently bored by the conversation, Russia and Mikhail went back to eating their food. Iceland soon turned away from Canada as well, though he didn't do much more than poke at the half-eaten pancakes on his plate.

"So, what am I never going to guess?" Canada asked.

"Huh? Oh!" Prussia's excitement returned. "Friedrich's Berlin! Can you believe it! He's my old capital! Kesesesesese! That mean  _I_ get to teach him about stuff!"

Canada froze for a moment, his spatula hovering over the frying pan. "T-that is good news. Congratulations."

"Ah~ So he's a part of East Germany."

"Shut up, damn commie."

Russia smiled. "Hет."

Canada stepped in before the fight could escalate into something worse. He shoved a plate with a single pancake on it into Prussia's hands, giving him a warning look. "Let's have a peaceful breakfast, eh? You can sit across from Mikhail."

"Not next to Icy?" Prussia asked, grinning at the stoic nation.

"No." Canada's tone left no room for argument. "That's Hong Kong's seat. Please go sit down. And  _behave._ "

"Sure thing,  _mutti_ ," Prussia said cheekily. He avoided his friend's swat and took a seat across from Mikhail, who continued to ignore him. He paid the boy no mind and instead proceeded to drown his pancake in maple syrup, cackling the whole time.

After pouring more batter into the pan, Canada joined them.

And for once, things were peaceful in the Braginski-Williams household. At least, until Iceland broke the silence with a comment.

"I wonder how well Moscow would get along with Berlin…"

All hell broke loose.

.

* * *

.

**Bonus scene:**

"Italy, where are the kids?" Germany asked after a few minutes of hugging in the kitchen had passed.

"Ve~ Spain and Romano took them for the night," Italy replied. "Dafne and Carmen wanted to play together."

"And my  _Bruder?_ "

"He said something about going to cockblock France for the night."

Germany made a mental note to talk to Prussia about using such words around his impressionable lover and then swept Italy off his feet and deposited him on the nearest clear counter. All thoughts of his brother left his mind and were replaced by ideas that were much more pleasurable. "So we have the house to ourselves all night."

Italy nodded giddily. "That's right! What do you want to- _oh_!" He gasped as Germany latched his lips onto a sensitive spot on his neck. "G-good thing I bought more cleaning supplies yesterday!"

"Italy, shut up," Germany muttered against his lover's skin. The image of Italy in a frilly apron-and nothing else-rose to the forefront of his mind. He could see it clearly. Italy, wiping down the counters, bending over to scrub at a stubborn stain. Him, walking up behind Italy-

Germany's train of thought derailed as Italy moaned softly.

His daydreams could wait for later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children:
> 
> Dafne Juliane Beilschmidt - blonde hair (with Italy's hair curl) and amber eyes - Germany and Italy's oldest daughter.
> 
> Sofia Wilhelmina Beilschmidt - brown hair and amber eyes - Germany and Italy's middle child
> 
> Friedrich Nickolaus Beilschmidt - blond hair and blue eyes - Germany and Italy's youngest child and only son - Berlin, Germany
> 
> Mikhail Irvine Williams - silver-blond hair and light purple eyes - Russia and Canada's only child - Moscow, Russia


	9. Tomatoes and Pasta and Wurst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another that was one a number of different chapters, now bundled into one. These revolve around SpainRomano, GermanyItaly, and AustriaHungaryPrussia

_1\. Training_

Germany proudly stood back and watched his family diligently run laps around the track he reserved for training that day.

There was his second daughter-Sofia, the personification of Saxony-with her coppery brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and her bangs fringed just under her eyebrows. She ran ahead of everyone, her long legs carrying her quickly and effortlessly, arms pumping in rhythm. She wore clothing he greatly approved of; cargo pants and a sleeveless green turtleneck of a lightweight material, along with a pair of sturdy boots.

Not far behind her was his youngest child and only son-Friedrich, the personification of Berlin. His blond hair was cut into a style reminiscent of Prussia's, only longer. Blue eyes stared straight ahead, focused and on tasked for the most part. Every now and then he'd glance around or stop to wave at one of his sister's or beloved mamma.

Germany smiled. His son had grown so much during the year he spent with Prussia in the eastern part of his country.

His eyes slid to the slow moving form of his lover, who looked as though he were about ready to collapse though he'd done little more than walk two laps on the track. After many, many years of dealing with the rather frustrating Italian, he was just thankful he wasn't rolling around in the grass, playing with cats or taking a siesta. In fact, he was pretty sure he saw him jog a few steps with Berlin.

There was someone missing.

Normally, there was a sunshine-blonde in a pink dress who worked at an even slower pace than her mamma, often getting distracted and wandering off. She was Dafne, the personification of Sardinia, and the oldest of his children.

Germany looked around, eventually finding her napping peacefully on the grassy embankment with a blue-colored chick nestled between her breasts, undisturbed by her breathing. He would have been relieved to see her in something other than a dress for training, had she not been wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top with flowery designs.

He heaved a sigh and then marched over to her. "Sardinia," he said sternly.

The girl slept on, only disturbed when her Vater's shadow passed onto her face. With a mumble of complaint, sleepy amber eyes blinked open. "Hmmm…?"

"Dafne," Germany said, his tone less harsh than before. "Why aren't you training?"

Dafne yawned as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. The blue chick (who actually belonged to Berlin) chirped in complaint and settled in her lap. "It was time for siesta, Vater. And it's too hot out to run." She pointed behind him. "Look! Mamma's taking a siesta too!"

Germany whirled around, immediately spotting his lover curled up in the grass with a white-and-brown cat sprawled out next to him. His gaze softened as he watched the slumbering brunet and the utterly peaceful expression on his face. Really, he couldn't be too angry with Italy. Not when he'd actually jogged without being under the threat of no pasta for dinner.

When he looked back at his daughter, he found her fast asleep once again. He watched her for a moment with an unreadable expression and then walked away to join his wonderfully hardworking German children in running laps.

It wasn't long before they were interrupted.

"Hey, West! Look who Hungary's letting me watch for the evening!"

Germany's running came to a halt as Prussia joined them with a pretty, dark-haired girl on his back. Gilbird was perched quite happily on her head and she was giggling as she clung to the Prussian's neck to keep from falling.

Unease washed over Germany. " _Bruder_ , why do you have Athala?"

Athala Katarina Edelstein was the only daughter of Austria and Hungary, though she resembled her father much more than her mother with her straight black hair and purplish-red eyes. In fact, the only things she seemed to have inherited from the Hungarian was her sense of style and her long hair.

"Huh?" Prussia blinked in confusion for a moment before he smirked. "Oh! Specs went and got himself lost again so Hungary had to go find him. I was just minding my own business when she pushed Birdie here towards me and said to watch her. Then I remembered you're having a training day and brought her here so she can spend some time with Berlin!"

At hearing his name called, Berlin paused in the midst of stretching to get up and jog over to them. His blue eyes lit up in delight when he saw the girl. "Vienna!"

"Berlin!" She happily replied, just as excited.

Prussia set her down and watched as she ran over to his nephew, immediately hugging his legs. "Damn, she's a cute little thing. Don't you think, West?"

As Berlin invited her to train with him, Germany grudgingly nodded in agreement. She was rather cute. And oddly enough, she seemed more than happy to exercise with Berlin, something Austria avoided in favor of playing piano. Maybe she was more like Hungary than he originally believed.

"Does Hungary know you took her from Austria's house?" Germany asked.

Prussia shrugged. "Prob'ly not. But she knows I have her! It's not like I stole her or something. If she wants to know where we're at, she can call you."

Germany was not at all pleased with the response. " _Bruder,_ call her before she comes charging in here and beats you even senselesser."

"Ahh, relax, West. Hungary knows I'll take care of Birdie. After all, I took care of Berlin for a whole year and he's just fine!"

" _Berlin_  is not a five-year-old girl."

"She's seven," Prussia corrected. "You losing your memory in your old age or something, West?"

Germany glared at him. "My memory is fine. Call Hungary."

Prussia grumbled to himself as he retrieved his well-loved phone from his back pocket. He flipped it open, waiting a few seconds for the screen to light up. When it didn't, he smacked the back of it and smirked when it finally came on. "Kesesesese…"

Germany rolled his eyes at his brothers antics. What else could he do?

After several long minutes, most of which Prussia spent slamming his phone around to get it to do what he wanted, he finally got in touch with Hungary. "Hey, West's being all unawesome and paranoid and shit and made me call to tell you I brought Birdie with me. She's training with Berlin right now." He glanced over at the pair and grinned when he saw that his nieces had joined the two. "Saxony and Sardinia are cooing over her now. Or Sardinia is. Saxony's more like West, so she's probably not squealing over her cuteness."

Hungary said something that made Prussia laugh loudly.

"Nah, I don't think that's gonna happen. Hey, you found Specs yet?" He listened for a moment. "Damn, well hurry up and find the idiot. Yeah, I'll make sure Athala doesn't wander off. You worry too damn much. I'm too awesome to let that happen!" His smile vanished and was replaced with a scowl. "That doesn't count. You lose him more often than I do! Just find him. I'll be here with West." He slammed the cell phone shut before Hungary could say another word.

" _Bruder,_  is something wrong?" Germany asked.

"No," Prussia snapped in reply. "I'm gonna go run with the kids. You go wake up Italy or something."

Germany watched his brother run off, wondering what the Hungarian woman said to make him so annoyed.

He wasn't sure when things became the way they were between his brother, Hungary, and Austria. There were times when they seemed to get along just fine, though Prussia's constant taunting of Austria grated on the pianists nerves. Hungary didn't bash Prussia over the head with a frying pan nearly as often as she did in the past. He supposed his brother was finally mellowing out. Or, more likely, Hungary was growing tired of the effort it took to beat him into oblivion only to have him come back the next day and do the same thing all over again.

Whether or not Prussia got along with Hungary was like flipping a coin. One toss and he'd be just fine, laughing along with whatever she was saying. A second toss and they'd still be chatting happily. But then a third toss would come along and they'd be at each others throats over the stupidest of things. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it had to do with Austria.

Germany shook his head and began walking over to Italy. He wasn't up for analyzing the relationship between his brother and the other two countries. He was just willing to leave it at both of them being in love with Austria and Hungary once again winning his heart. Though with Athala around, things were probably going to be much different than they were with their political marriage.

"Ve~ Prussia looks sad."

Germany sat down in the grass next to his lover, careful not to slide around and get streaks of grass stains all over his pants. "He brought Vienna with him."

Italy sat up and looked over at them with a cheery smile. "Aww, how cute! Ve~ Germany, Germany!"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think we'll ever have another?"

Germany stared down at the Italian in surprise. "We already have three. Do you really want another baby?"

Italy hummed thoughtfully, looking away from Prussia and the kids. "It might be fun. I miss having a little kid running around the house. Berlin's already sixteen! It won't be long before he moves out…"

Seeing the beginning of tears welling up in Italy's sweet amber eyes, Germany wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close, being as affectionate as he dared to be in public. "He won't be very far away. But if you'd like, in a few more years…" He coughed and trailed off, somewhat uncomfortable with the topic. A light shade of pink darkened his cheeks.

Italy smiled and wiggled closer to the German. "A few more years… Ve~ It might be nice to have some time to ourselves,  _si_?"

"Ja," agreed Germany.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_2\. Lunch_

Lunch was possibly Spain's favorite part of the day. It came after the morning chores of puttering around in the gardens, pulling weeds and plucking plump, ripe tomatoes, and cleaning up around the house. Lunch meant he got to escape to the coolness of the house with his beloved family and cook a delicious meal. Lunch meant listening to Romano's almost sleepy complaints, reminding him that it was almost time for a siesta. Lunch meant keeping his beautiful daughter away from the stove and from carrying anything, else she hurt herself with clumsiness. (She was usually sent to the table to sit next to her papa and chop tomatoes and various other things.) Lunch meant having a nice conversation with his son as they moved around, helping each other cook the meal to perfection.

"Mama, I finished cutting the lettuce!"

Spain beamed, moving quickly to the table to retrieve it so she wouldn't have to stand. "Ah,  _gracias_ , Carmen!"

Carmen, otherwise known as Barcelona, most definitely got her looks from her charming mama. With her thick, curly brown hair and happy green eyes, Spain sometimes wondered if there was any of his darling Romano in her. It wasn't until she hit what he supposed was her full height and yet her clumsiness didn't fade away that he began to see it more. She had a hard time cooking and cleaning, though it wasn't for a lack of trying. Food ended up burnt. Shelves were knocked over. Once he found her buried under a pile of laundry she'd been trying to hang out to dry.

Strangely, all hints of her ineptitude vanished when she was dancing. She held all the grace in the world as she danced, never once stumbling or falling. And in the garden she found no difficulty in pulling weeds or tilling up the earth when planting season arrived. Her carnations were some of the best in the area.

"Mama, the sauce is boiling."

Spain whisked away the lettuce and set it on the counter before dipping a spoon into a creamy sauce bubbling on the stove. He stirred it quickly and then cut down the heat. "How's the pasta, Fiore?"

"Almost done," replied his son. "Oi, a bunch of lettuce doesn't make a salad!"

Chuckling, Spain gathered a large bowl, another plate, and various vegetables and leafy greens so he could have Carmen mix the rest of the salad. He set down everything on the table before her, stopping to kiss Romano on the cheek before heading back to the counter to retrieve the lettuce, wondering why he'd moved it in the first place.

Fiore was the personification of the island of Sicily and so very like Romano that Spain wanted to scoop him up and cuddle him at the most random of times. He was just too cute! Of course, that usually led to a pouting Carmen jumping on him and demanding to be cuddled as well.

Romano just laughed at them. Not in a mean, condescending way. It was more of a my-family-is-crazy-but-I-love-them-anyway sort of laugh. He'd then corner Spain later, once the kids were off doing something, and demand to have his own cuddle time, though that usually led to something else.

"Damn water!" Fiore cursed, jerking his hand away from the pot of pasta.

Spain smiled, unbothered by the language.

His son had inherited Romano's looks. With straight dark brown hair and that strange curl sticking out on his right side, the only way he didn't resemble his papa was his eyes. They were green, just like Carmen's. He was a little taller too, though not as tall as Spain.

Personality-wise, Spain would have to say that Fiore took after Romano, foul temper and all, while Carmen took after him. He hoped she hadn't gotten his possessive streak. So far, it hadn't shown up, which he took as a good sign.

Soon, the pasta was done and covered in the home-made sauce before being placed in the middle of the table. Carmen's tossed salad was there too, as well as a large plate of sliced tomatoes, primarily for Romano and Fiore to enjoy. They bowed their heads as Romano led them in a brief prayer and then dug into the food with gusto.

Carmen laughed as she battled with her papa for the first helping of pasta. Fiore cursed up a storm when his sister flung a bit of food in his face on accident. Romano eventually gave in and snagged a few slices of tomato. Spain watched his family with laughter in his eyes.

He loved lunch time.

 

* * *

 

 

_3\. Mafia_

Dafne cursed as she threw her shoulder against a metal door, slamming it back against the brick wall of an alley. Her other arm was wrapped securely around a disoriented Fiore, who was clutching his side to help stem the flow of blood spilling onto his clothes. She roughly shoved him to the wall, not bothering to check if he clung to it for support before she turned around and kicked the door shut.

Frantic amber eyes darted around for something to block the path of their pursuers, but all she spotted was a large dumpster, which was far too heavy for her to lift.

" _We'll run,"_  Fiore choked out in Italian, leaning heavily on the brick wall.  _"Come on."_

" _They'll catch up,"_  replied Dafne.  _"You're hurt. We won't be fast enough. I'll fight them."_

Fiore's green eyes flashed in frustration.  _"Like hell! Look at you! You're trembling already! And I won't be able to fucking do anything to help you! Lets get the hell out of here and deal with them later!"_

" _It's too late. They'll see us."_

" _We have to try!"_

Too late.

The door slammed open, revealing a group of men loaded down with guns. Their cold eyes immediately focused on the personified Italian islands.

Dafne cursed in Italian as she grabbed Fiore by the arm and swung him around the dumpster, using it to shield both of them. A small, German-made pistol appeared in her small hands as bullets began firing around them.

" _Get the hell out of here,"_ Fiore commanded.

Dafne replied in rough German. As she slid down the dumpster, cautiously trying to look around the corner of it and find out the exact positions of the men.  _"I'm not leaving without you. We stick together, remember. Islands of Southern Italy."_ She held out her hand towards him, her amber eyes daring him to refuse.

Fiore grasped her hand with his unbloodied one.  _"Islands of Southern Italy."_

" _I'll get us out of here. I promise."_

Fiore's eyes widened as Dafne released his hand and ducked out from behind the dumpster.  _"_ _ **Sardinia!**_ _"_

_._

* * *

_.  
_

Spain hovered over Fiore worryingly, poking and prodding at him in various places, testing for pain. Romano stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, looking bored out of his mind.

"Damn it, mom! I'm fine!" Fiore snapped, finally stepping away as Spain's hands strayed close to his ribs. "It's just a broken arm! It'll heal in a few weeks!"

"But how did this happen,  _mi tomate_?" Spain fretted. He reached out, wanting to continue checking over his son for other injuries. Fortunately for Fiore, Carmen chose that moment to dance though the room, humming a cheerful song.

"Mama! Papa! I just got the greatest idea for the fiesta!" Carmen said excitedly. She reached out and took Spain's hand, pulling his attention away from Fiore. "Come hear it! I'm telling Uncle Germany and Uncle Italy too!"

Fiore was both thankful and resentful that Carmen could capture the attention of their mama so easily. He stared at their backs angrily, though he wasn't sure why. He didn't notice his papa's thoughtful look before he too followed after the father-daughter pair.

He stood there in the kitchen, staring at the space his family occupied mere seconds before. There he was, clearly injured, and they would rather listen to Carmen babble on about her ideas for some fiesta? It wasn't much of a surprise to him. He knew Carmen was the favorite one. The sweet one who did nothing wrong. The one who brought much joy into their lives with her bubbly, always-happy personality.

He was the grumpy one. The one who complained about the simplest of things. The one who swore like a sailor when anything went wrong and closed himself off to the rest of the world. There were days he felt only Dafne could really understand him, but others when he wanted nothing more than to scream at her and scare her away because she was just  _so damn clueless._

"Ve~ Fiore?"

Fiore narrowed his eyes at his fair-haired cousin, her mere presence annoying him. "What?"

Dafne worried her lower lip, her doe-like eyes meeting his without hesitance. "Are you okay? You don't want to hear Carmen's ideas?"

"No I don't!" Fiore snapped. "Leave me alone! Just go out there with everyone else and have fun!"

Dafne hesitated, torn between wanting to stay and talk to her cousin or spent time laughing with the rest of the family. After a few seconds, she planted her feet firmly on the linoleum and her fidgeting ceased. "Does it hurt?"

"Does  _what_  hurt?"

Dafne sighed impatiently, knowing better than to try and get him to talk honestly about how he felt, whether it dealt with emotions or aches and pains. She quickly walked forward and grasped his shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong as she led him out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom, where they could have a little privacy.

Ignoring his protests, she pulled up the bottom of his shirt so she could get a good look at his side. She tsk'd when she saw how much blood had soaked through the once-white bandages. "Have you even bothered taking care of this?"

Fiore tried to smack her hands away, but found himself too weak to do so. He hated the idea of hurting a girl, even if she was half German.

Dafne rolled her eyes. "I'm guessing that's a 'no'. Where's your first aid kit? All of this needs changed. You know, just because we're us doesn't mean we're immune to infection."

"I know."

Dafne searched the cabinets and quickly found a well-stocked first aid box. Nimble fingers picked out a roll of bandages and disinfectant, as well as a small pair of scissors and a pin to keep the cloth in place. She set everything except the scissors aside and began cutting off the old bandage before Fiore could stop her.

" _Ow_ , dammit! That fucking hurts!"

"If you would take care of it this wouldn't hurt so bad," Dafne replied. "Good thing I took the bullet out myself, or else it would still be in there!"

"Quiet!" Fiore hissed. "Do you want everyone to hear?"

Dafne sighed as she ripped away the stained cloth, eliciting a yelp and then a whimper of pain from her cousin. She tossed aside the dirty bandage and began poking and prodding at the wound. "They're busy listening to Barcelona. They won't hear us in here."

"So you'd think," Fiore grumbled. He wearily eyed the bottle of disinfectant as Dafne picked it up. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Clean the wound."

"God damn it! Use soap and water first, you sadistic German bitch!"

"Ve~ You're right!"

Fiore glared at her as she retrieved a wash cloth and bar of soap from under the sink. He wanted nothing more than to shove her out of the room and take care of the wound himself, but knew that it would be far easier to let her take care of it for him. He cautiously unbuttoned his shirt and, after struggling to get his cast through the sleeve, let it fall to the floor.

Humming, Dafne wet down the wash cloth and lathered it up with soap before turning back to Fiore. She gently washed away the dried blood around the wound first and then pressed it right against the bullet hole.

Fiore flinched violently, a tsunami of harsh curses spilling from his lips. He closed his eyes as tears welled up and threatened to spill down his cheeks.

Dafne continued cleaning, knowing better than to pay much attention to his words. Once she was done, she thoroughly rinsed out the wash cloth and set it aside. Her next objective was to soak a thick piece of cotton with disinfectant and then turn it and press it right to the wound. She ignored his wiggling around and quickly grabbed the roll of bandage on the counter and began wrapping it around him, making sure it was tight enough to protect the wound, but not so tight that it caused him pain to breathe. She pinned it in place when she was done and then stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

"All bandaged. It should heal up better now."

"Still fucking hurts," muttered Fiore. He stiffly leaned over and picked up his shirt. He struggled with putting it back on using only one hand, nearly giving up and throwing it down when he had trouble fitting the loose sleeve around his cast. At last he succeeded on his own and let Dafne take over with buttoning it back up.

"Ve~ All done," chirped Dafne happily. "Lets go see if Carmen's still talking!" She took his hand and pulled him towards the door, using her free hand to open it. She froze suddenly, her amber eyes flying open when she noticed who was on the other side.

Romano stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and his darker amber eyes narrowed. "Sardinia. Sicily. I think you have some explaining to do."

"Papa, it's nothing," Fiore said.

"Bullshit," Romano snapped. He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and pushed Dafne aside so he could yank up his son's shirt and see the bandage for himself. "What the fuck have you two  _moron's_ been doing? I know you didn't do this falling out of a tree. That's a stupid cover story."

Fiore squirmed under his dad's glare. "I-I- um…"

"It's nothing," Dafne said.

"Shut the hell up," Romano growled. "Fiore,  _how did this happen?_ "

Fiore continued to fidget, not knowing what to say. He glanced at Dafne, who had her back pressed against the sink counter and was trying not to say anything. After a few excruciatingly long seconds, he looked back at his papa. "I'm sorry."

Romano's mouth pressed into a thin line as he looked between the two islands. "Dafne, tell me what you've been doing or I'll go get my brother and the potato-bastard."

"We just wanted to help!" Dafne blurted.

"Dafne, no!" Fiore hissed.

The fair-haired Italian island continued, her voice growing more frantic. "We thought that maybe if we helped then they'd leave you alone! And it started out okay! I mean, they don't really mind us here in Italy but then we went over to America-"

" _They_  who?" Romano interrupted. "Not…" He narrowed his eyes at his son. " _Fiore Leonardo Carriedo_ , you had better not be involved with the fucking mafia! And you involved your cousin in it too?"

"I volunteered," Dafne said quickly.

Romano turned his glare to her. "That's even worse! What the hell were you two thinking? And why the fuck did you go to America?"

The two began speaking at the same time.

"London was complaining about how her dad has been having a hard time with the mob-"

"We just wanted to make it so you wouldn't have to deal with them. I kept hearing you complain about the mafia to mama-"

"-so we figured we'd fly over there and see what we could do-"

"-when I was younger and then I mentioned it to Dafne and she agreed-"

"-but they didn't really welcome us over there at all. We figured that out pretty quickly though and tried to get out of there-"

"-and since the mafia (unfortunately) originated in Sicily then I figured it was sort of my job to take over with dealing with them-"

"-but then-"

" _ENOUGH!"_ Romano roared.

The pair of islands immediately fell silent.

"You morons…you…  _God…_ " Romano's voice cracked as he stepped forward and pulled Fiore into a hug. "Damn it. You're so stupid. Both of you." His muttering switched from Italian to broken Spanish as he continued, holding his son close.

"Ve~ So sweet!" Dafne cooed happily. "I want a hug too!"

She easily joined the hug-fest, her slim frame allowing her to slip between them. Romano changed his hold to make more room for her. Fiore grumbled in displeasure, but didn't try to move away.

"I'm going with you next time," Romano said, leaving no room for argument. "I've been dealing with those bastards for years. You'll need my help."

Neither Dafne nor Fiore dared to disagree.

 

* * *

 

 

 

4\. Pets

" _Romano~ Look what I found!"_

_The Italian in question turned around and came face-to-face with a tiny, wiggling turtle. He stared at it blankly for a moment. "Spain…"_

_Uncertainty flickered across the Nation's face as he pulled the turtle away from his lover._

" _You damned idiot! What are you doing with a turtle! Where the hell did you get it!" From there, Romano splintered off into rapid Italian while Spain stood there smiling. When he finally finished, Spain held up the turtle in a hopeful manner._

" _So can we keep him?"_

" _I'm not taking care of it."_

" _Thanks, Romano~"_

" _Get off me, bastard!"_

* * *

Romano looked from his daughter to the large bird in her arms.

Daughter.

Bird.

Daughter.

Bird.

Daughter.

"Carmen," he began slowly, gritting his teeth together and fighting every once of his being to not shout at her. It wasn't her fault she mostly had her mama's genes. "Where the fuck did you get a heron?"

Carmen laughed, her green eyes twinkling merrily, just like another Spaniard he loved. "Isn't he cute? I named him  _Cielo_!"

Romano backed up as the bird stretched out it's long neck and tried to peck him. "Yeah…cute. Go show your mama."

"Yay! I knew you'd like him!" Carmen whirled around, her curly brown hair bouncing wildly as she did so. "Mama! Mama! Papa says I can keep him!"

Romano could hear Spain laughing in the other room.

"I knew he would! Romano has a soft spot for cute things~"

Romano blushed deep red. "I do not! And I'm not taking care of that damn bird! Do you hear me, Carmen?"

" _Si, papa!"_

And so, there came to be a new addition to the Carriedo-Vargas household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berlin, Germany - Friedrich Nickolaus Beilschmidt - The youngest child of Germany and Italy, also their only son. Blond hair and blue eyes.  
> Did you know: Berlin was once Prussia's capital. It's also in east Germany, thus his year spent with Prussia.
> 
> Saxony, Germany - Sofia Wilhelmina Beilschmidt - The middle child of Germany and Italy. Brown hair and eyes.  
> Originally she was going to be Bavaria, but apparently there already is a Bavaria... so she became Saxony.
> 
> Sardinia, Italy - Dafne Juliane Beilschmidt - The oldest child of Germany and Italy. Straight blonde hair and amber eyes. Hair curl on her left side.
> 
> Barcelona, Spain - Carmen Esmerelda Carriedo - Possibly the older twin, though I haven't quite decided. Curly brown hair, reaches mid-back and green eyes.
> 
> Sicily, Italy - Fiore Leonardo Carriedo - May be the younger twin? - brown hair with a curl on his right side, green eyes.
> 
> The blue bird - Frieden - Friedrich's bird companion, earned during his year with Prussia (of course).
> 
> Vienna, Austria - Athala Katarina Edelstein - The only child of Austria and Hungary. Long black (actually really dark brown) hair and purple-red eyes.  
> Probably the character I've changed the most since I first created her.


	10. Pastries (DenmarkNorway)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norway's been in a sour mood for a while, so Denmark decides to make him pastries in hopes that they'll cheer up his love. He succeeds but all Norway wants to do is talk about something he didn't expect.

Norway wanted to kill something. Preferably a tall, blond something with blue eyes constantly sparkling with mischief and a damnable grin that often led to nothing but trouble.

Maybe "kill" was too strong of a word. For some incomprehensible reason, he did enjoy the company of the overenthusiastic Scandinavian nation on occasion. He felt as though he could settle for simply maiming the taller man. Maybe crush his fingers. Accidentally run him over with a car. Hint around to the trolls that it wouldn't be an entirely bad thing if the man got a little beaten up the next time he came around.

Or he could get the battle axe from the attic and chop up the bouquet of flowers sitting on his front porch. (Never mind why the axe was  _still_  in his house.)

Norway stood over the flowers, glaring at them contemptuously, wondering what it would take to make them spontaneously combust. After a few minutes, he stomped one foot on them, deliberately twisting his heel to grind them into the concrete. Feeling invigorated by actually doing something, he marched back into the house and fetched a pair of glistening scissors, which he used to maliciously chop up the plants, starting with the bright red flowers.

At one point, Iceland spotted him, but after seeing the look in his brother's eyes, he decided it was best to not get involved. In fact, he was going to take the opportunity to sneak out the back door without the Norwegian stalking him. A nice, peaceful day with Hong Kong sounded much better than dealing with his brother's mood swings.

Breathing heavily, Norway paused to look over his work. A potpourri of red and green covered the top step, some pieces moving in the slight breeze. He smirked and retreated indoors for a second time, only to return with a box. With barely masked sadistic glee, he scoop up the plant particles and dumped them into it.

Norway snapped his fingers, calling up a troll and directing it to take the box to Denmark's house. Content at last, he went back inside, shutting the door behind him.

.

* * *

.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong! I tried flowers! I tried chocolates! I tried sending him a giant heart pillow! Nothing I do works! It all gets sent back to me all chopped to pieces!"

France swirled his wine glass, eying Denmark with twinkling blue eyes and a smile. "So you came to me, knowing I am the country of  _l'amour_. A wise choice, my friend."

Denmark leaned forward, his expression a mixture of surprise and relief. "You're going to help me?"

France made a thoughtful sound and took a sip of wine. He waited a few seconds before speaking. " _Oui."_

"Well, what is it? What should I do?" Denmark asked impatiently.

"You're thinking too generic,  _mon ami_. You need to do something that shows just how much you care for him. Perhaps something your country is famous for would be a start? And make the effort to deliver it yourself. If that doesn't work, stick around and do something useful until he gets annoyed enough to talk to you."

"Something I'm famous for…" Denmark murmured. "Okay. Yeah! I can do that! But, uh… Hey, France, what am I famous for?"

Were France some unrefined country (like England), he would have given up on Denmark the second he received his distressed phone call. But he was France, the country of romance, and he would assist his fellow nations so long as they sought his advice. However, there was always a point where he had to step back and let them figure things out on their own.

France stood up. "I'm sorry, but that's something you must find out on your own. Just think about it. It will come to you.  _Au revoir!"_

Denmark groaned and slumped over the table as he watched the Frenchman leave. "What am I going to do? What would Norge like?"

He sat at the table for a few minutes, shredding a piece of napkin while he thought.

He wasn't like Finland. He didn't have the knack for knowing exactly what gift to give people. Nor was he like Sweden, who was excellent at building and making things. He was much better at getting people's attention and selling things.

Unless it was firewood. Denmark prided himself on his log chopping abilities. It was the one time Norway willingly let him handle an axe of any kind.

_I could chop firewood… It'll be snowing soon. But I do that every year! What can I…?_

Denmark's eyes landed on a tray of desserts as a waiter bustled by.

_Food… Norge likes food. And sweet things._

"Danishes!" He shouted, jumping up. "That's perfect!" Then, laughing like a madman to the amusement and concern of the other patrons of the restaurant, he dropped a bit of money on the table and then ran away.

Denmark had a plan.

.

* * *

.

It was a messy plan, as he soon discovered. His kitchen would never be the same. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd have to replace every surface in the room. Maybe he could convince Sweden to make him new cabinets?

Though it took him about five tries, he'd succeeded in making some rather tasty Danish's. He hoped it would be enough to get Norway to let him stay at his place for a few days so the burning smell permeating his house would have time to fade.

Denmark lovingly packed the treats in a red box and then wrapped a blue and white ribbon around it to make it resemble the Norwegian flag. After making sure nothing in the kitchen was on fire, he set off for Norway's house.

Norway greeted him at the front door with a glare and a pair of scissors. Puffs of cotton and scraps of blue and red fabric littered the floor around him.

Denmark gulped. It seemed his previous gift, two heart-shaped pillows designed to look like the flags of their countries, hadn't gone over very well. Almost hesitantly, he brought the box out from behind his back and held it towards Norway.

"I made these for you,  _Norge_! It took me a few tries, but I made sure to taste-test them before I wrapped 'em up for you! They're Danishes!"

Norway's expression didn't change as he took the box and untied the ribbon, letting it flutter to the floor. Opening it up, he stared at the pastries.

They weren't perfect by any means. They were misshapen and one or two were oozing fruit. Another two were beginning to stick together. Almost all of them were slightly charred.

"They taste better than they look," Denmark said, his convincing tone faltering as he finished.

For a moment, Norway considered throwing the box on the ground and stomping on it. He would have carried out the act had he not looked at Denmark.

There was flour in the Dane's hair and on his forehead. A streak of some kind of liquidized fruit was still on one of his cheeks. A rather angry blister shone on his arm and the palm of his hand from where skin touched burning metal.

Denmark had cooked no,  _baked_  for him.

Denmark, who never failed to tease Sweden about how he was the one who cooked and did the sewing.

Denmark, who'd once told him cooking wasn't manly unless it involved fire or a grill.

So instead of tossing aside the pastries, Norway stepped back and slammed the door in Denmark's face, taking the box with him.

Denmark blinked in surprise when he found himself staring at the heavy front door. Slowly, a grin split across his face.

He had a chance.

Norway slammed the door in his face, but he hadn't locked it. Nor had he summoned a troll to chase him away.

" _Norge_ , I'm gonna chop firewood!" Denmark announced jovially, though he didn't know if the quiet Nordic heard him or not. Whistling, he walked away to retrieve the axe from the shed.

Inside, Norway slumped against the door, smiling softly at the box of Danishes. He hesitantly picked up one of the less burnt ones and nibbled it. Rich, sweet flavor exploded on his tongue, enticing him to take a bigger bite and eventually finish off the pastry.

An expression of awe washed over the Norwegian's face when he realized what happened.

_Denmark…can bake? And he's_ good _at it. Iceland's never going to believe this._

Pushing away from the door to head to the kitchen, Norway flipped out his cell phone and hit the speed dial for his little brother. If he was lucky, his call would interrupt another moment between Iceland and his young Asian friend.

.

* * *

.

As Iceland lay beneath Hong Kong, enjoying the feel of his lover's gently caresses, a look of ire appeared on his face. He sat up with a groan, calling an end to their activities, and removed his buzzing phone from his back pocket.

"Ignore it," Hong Kong grumbled in irritation.

Iceland frowned. "I can't. Just like you can't ignore your family." He flipped open the device and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

" _Denmark baked."_

'My brother,' Iceland mouthed to Hong Kong. "Good for him. Give him a prize or a bone or something. What do you want?"

" _They're good."_

Iceland sighed. "I'm not coming home to try food. I'm busy."

There was a moment of silence.  _"I shut the door in his face. He's outside chopping wood."_

"Then let the moron inside once he's done," Iceland said, rolling his eyes. "He sent you a gift every day this week and now he's made you food and is chopping wood. It's not like you haven't already slept with him."

He could feel Norway's glare.

Hong Kong chuckled.

" _Where are you?"_

"I'm with Hong Kong. Just forgive the moron already. I don't want to come home to find him pawing at the door or trying to serenade you again. That was weird."

Again, Norway was silent.

"Let him in, talk to him, and  _don't call me again_. I'm turning off my phone. Goodbye." Iceland hung up before his brother could protest. After carelessly tossing his phone aside, he reached up and grasped Hong Kong's shirt, pulling him close. "So, where were we?"

.

* * *

.

Norway would never admit it to anyone, but he loved watching Denmark, especially when the man would take off his shirt while chopping firewood. There was something about the way his muscles rippled while he worked, sunlight glinting off of tanned skin, that reminded him of a time when Denmark was at the height of his power.

In fact, though chopping wood had originally been a necessity at Norway's house since it was the only way to keep it heated during winter as well as to cook food in the wood stove, modern improvements rendered the outdated equipment unneeded. In fact, the only reason Norway kept his wood burning fireplace was simply so Denmark would have something productive to do. Or so he told everyone else.

From his kitchen table, Norway had a clear view of the backyard through his bay windows, curtained in a calming sea blue. He reached for his fifth Danish, then realized what he was doing and pulled back his hand to rest it in his lap.

"Do you think I should let him in?" Norway asked to a seemingly empty house. He listened for a moment, picking up on a quiet chiming sound as a pair of iridescent wings flickering amidst an orb of light flew to his side. "I agree with you. It's just… This isn't something that can be said so bluntly." He paused again to listen and shook his head. "I don't know."

Denmark turned around, wiping his brow after depositing the last split log onto the stack. He grinned and waved when he spotted Norway in the window.

Norway raised his hand in greeting as the fairy flitted away, subconsciously reaching for the pastries in a fluid motion to cover up his true intention. By the time he noticed what he was doing, he'd eaten about half of the Danish.

Denmark opened up the back door enough to stick his head inside. " _Norge?_  I finished chopping firewood. Is there anything else you want me to do?"

"Come in."

Denmark stepped inside in an almost wear manner, watching Norway for any sign of ill will. It wasn't until he saw the mostly eaten box of Danishes that he began to relax.

"They were good, huh?" He said, looking at the Norwegian expectantly.

"They were decent," Norway corrected.

Denmark beamed, knowing that was practically a statement of everlasting love from his favorite expressionless nation. "Do you want me to go out and bring in the wood? Or I could make sure your windows and doors are ready for winter. Maybe you'd rather-"

Norway walked over and took his hand, effectively shutting him up. "Tomorrow."

Denmark looked at him in confusion. "Huh? Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? I've got a little time left before the sun goes down. I could get it done today."

"No." Norway tugged him out of the kitchen, towards the hall leading to his bedroom.

"Why are we going-  _ohhhh._ "

Norway sighed. "No."

"No?" Denmark repeated, sounding more confused than before. "Then what are we going to do?"

"Talk."

"About what?"

"…"

" _Norge?"_

Norway remained silent as they walked into the bedroom. He released Denmark's hand and went to the bed, where he sat down and waited for his lover to sit down next to him. After a few minutes of fidgeting and trying to figure out what Norway wanted, Denmark sat down beside him. He chuckled when his weight on the bed caused the smaller man to slip towards him. Even better, Norway didn't move away despite being pressed snugly against him.

"So, what are we talking about?" Denmark asked.

"Why don't you want children?"

Denmark fidgeted uncomfortably. " _Nor-"_

"Why?" Norway interrupted. "Answer the question, Denmark. I want the truth."

"Are you sure there's not something else I could do right now? What if it rains and ruins the firewood?" Denmark asked.

Norway didn't say a word. He stared at Denmark, his dark blue eyes penetrating his defenses and making him squirm even more.

Denmark sighed heavily. "I do want kids. Or at least one. I just… I didn't want to, you know, pressure you or anything. I figured that since things were finally going sort of right between us that I shouldn't say anything that would challenge it. Didn't think you'd really want one, to be honest." He looked at Norway with a hopeful expression. "Do you want kids?"

"Just one."

"Really?" Denmark asked eagerly. His fidgeting came to an abrupt end, his entire being radiating with excitement. "So who gets to be the mom?"

Norway rolled his eyes. "You'd give the poor kid alcohol poisoning. Obviously, I will have to do it. But you will be there for  _everything_. Do you understand?"

"Yup!" Denmark said with a laugh. He wrapped an arm around the Norwegian's shoulders and pulled him a little closer before planting a kiss on top of his head. "When do we start?"

"Later," Norway replied. "Go bring in the firewood."

Denmark laughed again, kissing his lover one last time before getting up to go do as he was told.

And so, ten months later, Renata Hjørdis Christensen, the first and only girl of the Nordics was born.

.


	11. Stress Relief (GermanyItaly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany is really stressed out and Italy tries to make him relax. When he feels the baby moving, he calls for Germany, not knowing his actions will lead to his love calming down. As he drifts off to sleep, Germany begins talking to the baby. 
> 
> (I don't think I ever actually listed this under The Rising Generation, but it fits in well with it.)

Italy worried his lower lip as he watched Germany go over paperwork. He was hunched over his desk, his hair was mussed, and his shirt wasn't buttoned correctly, which was probably the reason he had chosen to do his work at home that day instead of going to meet with his boss. After a few minutes a sad "ve" slipped past his lips and he shut the door quietly.

"West still working?" Prussia asked.

Italy nodded miserably. He sniffled, his hands moving to caress his belly and sooth the life growing within. "I don't know what to do. He's been like this for weeks." He looked to Prussia, his honey eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "What should I do?"

Prussia shrugged. "Fuck if I know. Maybe it's just a phase." He looked around the room and smirked when he spotted a set of keys. He scooped them up, cackling a little at the dangling potato keychain. "Hey, if he snaps out of it, tell him I'm taking his car. Hell, go tell him I'm taking the car right now. If that doesn't get his attention, I don't know what will."

"Ve~ Where are you going?"

"Gotta go bail France's ass out of jail again. Apparently he and Spain went drinking and then Romano showed up, shit happened, and now 'tonio won't bail Franny out of jail because he was hitting on Romano again so I've got to go over there and get him out. I'll probably be back late." After patting Italy on the back and wishing him luck with Germany, Prussia left the house.

Italy watched him go, his feelings conflicted. On the one hand, Prussia wasn't much help with figuring out what was bothering Germany. On the other, Italy no longer had someone to talk to when his plan failed.

He'd been trying to help Germany since he first noticed how stressed out the man was. Though it took him an extra week to figure out he was stressed because of the baby, but at least he figured it out on his own, right? (Okay, that's a lie. Hungary may have dropped a few hints.)

The other week he'd caught Germany before he could walk outside with his hair all mussed. He quickly and insistently fixed it on his own, wanting to show Germany that he really was useful and that he didn't sit around eating pasta and talking to Prussia all day.

A few days after that he donned an apron and a kerchief (gifts from Hungary) and cleaned the house before Germany returned home from work. The problem with that was Germany returned home early and found him taking a siesta on the couch before he could finish. By the time he woke, the blond had finished the cleaning himself and had even started on dinner.

After that he tried taking Germany lunch at work, cooking a romantic dinner for two (after kicking out a certain albino), and he tried taking the dogs for a walk. The last one had ended in nothing short of disaster and probably stressed out Germany even more since Aster had gotten all excited and knocked him over, making him drop the leashes, and then all three of them went running after some tiny animal.

Coming home to a sobbing Italy with scraped knees and hearing that Prussia was out searching for their pet dogs probably wasn't great for poor Germany's nerves.

Italy's fingers traced circles on his protruding belly.

He was running out of ideas.

There had to be  _something_ he could do to get his love to relax. He'd been working so hard lately. He deserved a break!

He sighed sadly and walked over and sat down on the couch. Both hands drifted up to rest on his belly. He found it almost strange how much that comforted him. The thought that just under his fingertips, somewhere inside of him, there was a life growing. A life created by him and Germany and no one else. Something good. Something perfect.

Italy smiled softly and began to daydream about what their child would look like. Maybe they'd have Germany's blond hair and his light brown eyes. Or Germany's eyes and his brown hair. Or maybe the baby would look like a miniature Germany.

He giggled at the thought.

_Movement._

"Ve~…" Italy looked down at his belly, puzzled.

Was that…?

"Germany!" He called, hoping his love could hear him through the closed door. He waited a few seconds and then called for him again. "Germany! … _Ludwig!"_

The door to the study swung open so fast that it slammed into the wall with a loud  _bang!_  Germany stood there, looking around for his little lover before spotting him on the couch. His shoulders slumped when he saw the brunet sitting there, safe and sound. "Italy, what is it? I have work to-"

"Come here!" Italy interrupted, waving one hand wildly. "Just for a minute! Please?"

Germany hesitated, clearly wanting to go back to his work. One look at Italy's pleading expression had his defenses melting. He quickly strode across the room to the brunet's side. "Is there something you need?"

Italy patted the space beside him. "Sit! Sit! You have to feel this!"

Germany sighed, but sat down, knowing he wouldn't get any more work done until he did so. "What exactly am I feeling?"

Italy didn't respond with words and instead grabbed Germany's hand and placed it on his belly where his hands had been seconds before.

"Ita-"

"Shh! Just wait." Italy frowned after a few seconds passed and nothing happened. He directed Germany's hand to move a few centimeters. "Come on baby, move for mamma?"

Germany frowned. "Italy-"

_There._

Again, movement.

A smile blossomed on Italy's face as Germany's stoic expression morphed to one of awe. At last he was getting somewhere! Of course, he just wanted Germany to feel their baby moving too, but if it was going to make him relax even a little then that was even better!

Germany scooted a little closer. Italy took the opportunity to lean against him and let his head fall on the blond's shoulder, reveling in being close to him. They sat like that for a few long minutes and Italy soon felt himself beginning to drift off to sleep. He couldn't help it. It was time for a siesta, after all. His breathing slowly evened out and he was all ready to let himself be carried off into the land of dreams when Germany spoke.

"You're really in there…" He sighed softly, careful not to move for fear of waking Italy. "I wonder who you'll look like, which of us you'll take more after. Will you like pasta or wurst? Will you fight or run away? I worry…" His eyes flickered to Italy. "Not just about my work and the headaches that Prussia gives me. I worry about…you. And Italy. I wonder if he's ready for this." He paused for a long moment. "I wonder if  _I'm_  ready for this. Raising a child… I'm terrified. It's not like going to war. I can't yell at you when things go wrong. I can't yell at Italy either. Things won't always go according to plan… But…"

Italy sighed softly, pressing himself closer to Germany, who smiled gently.

"I'm okay with that. So long as I have your Mutti by my side."


End file.
